


Superbloom

by a_gay_poster



Series: The Language of Flowers [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Flower Language, Hatake Kakashi/Maito Gai (background), Lee has a real hard time with feelings, Long Distance Relationship, M/M, The simmering threat of long overdue library fines, Written Correspondence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2019-10-02 09:36:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17261858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_gay_poster/pseuds/a_gay_poster
Summary: Summer becomes fall becomes winter becomes spring. Lee travels to Suna and still struggles to articulate his feelings.Sequel to 'Hanakotoba'





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My New Years' Resolution is to write for 30 minutes a week, so this should be updated every couple of weeks! I apologize for my long delay and silence, the past year has been _a lot_ , but I'm ready to refocus on the things that make me happy. 
> 
> You'll probably need to read the first story in order to understand this one.
> 
> This is unbeta'd because I got too embarrassed, sorry for any mistakes.

The slow mugginess of summer fades into the crisp brightness of fall. Lee checks his mail dutifully every day he’s at home and finds nothing but bills, sale fliers, and late notices from the library. He slinks, half-casual, to the Mission Desk every week, hoping for a mission to the southwest, and laughs off Kiba’s raunchier jokes. 

“It’s getting colder here!” he protests. “I just want to be able to warm up my bones.”

“I can think of _one_ bone you’re trying to warm up,” Kiba leers, and Lee blushes to the tips of his ears.

A few times, he sits down at his kitchen table, pen and paper in hand. He looks at the tiny sand flower on his bookshelf and tries to give words to his thoughts. He scratches through line after line, and ends the endeavor embarrassed. He folds his failed drafts neatly and hides them under the food waste in his kitchen trash can, puts the pen neatly back in its box as if it never happened. 

In September, he’s assigned on a long mission to the Hidden Cloud Village with Tenten. He brings his pen and paper with him, just in case, and sits up nights staring at the blank sheets by candle light and campfire. The dignitary they’re escorting calls him “studious”, and TenTen guffaws like it’s the best joke she’s ever heard. 

* * *

Lee wakes one cold October morning to a tapping at his kitchen window. A hawk sits on his windowsill, its brown feathers sleek and tidy. Lee opens the window to let it in, and the bird flutters confidently to his kitchen table and fluffs its feathers. Around the hawk’s neck is a grey message bag. Lee’s fingers hover uncertainly over the satchel. _What is the protocol for getting a message off a bird?_ he wonders. _Should I pet it? Do I thank it?_

The hawk turns around with a disgruntled ruffling of feathers, offering the bag on its back. 

“Sorry,” Lee murmurs, pulling the drawstring open. Inside is another, smaller bag, made of rough hewn burlap. Lee tips it open onto his kitchen table. A small, folded note and a fuzzy brown lump tumble onto the surface. 

Lee’s eyes dart immediately to the note, but he has to deal with this visitor first. 

“Um, do you want this back?” He holds the smaller bag out to the hawk. 

The hawk turns its head away sharply and begins making its way back to the window. 

“Oh, I guess I get to keep it. Do you want, uh - “ Lee pauses. _What do hawks eat?_ “I don’t have any bird food, but I have rice?” 

The bird rolls its head over its shoulder and fixes Lee with a single-eyed stare.

“No rice, got it.” Lee opens his fridge and starts rifling through. “Oh!” he exclaims. “You’re carnivorous, right? I have some leftover chicken, if you want?” 

The hawk tilts its head.

“Oh, no, that’s another bird. Is that cannibalism? No, wait!” Lee emerges from the fridge with a package wrapped in brown paper held high over his head, triumphant. “I have raw shrimp!”

He carries the packet over to the table and unwraps it. The hawk takes a long, considering look over the offering. Then, with a fierce lunge of its head, it seizes the largest of the shrimp in its sharp beak and swallows it whole. The bird tilts its head inquisitively and moves to grab the next largest shrimp. Lee instinctively slaps his hand down over the seafood.

“Hey, wait! I need the rest of those for dinner!” 

The hawk snaps at his fingers impudently, head bobbing between and around his hands to try to get at the shrimp. 

“No, stop it! You only get one!” Lee quickly flips the packet of shrimp over on the table with a wet slap. Shrimp juice oozes over the wood and the hawk gives him a judgmental look.

Seeming to recognize that it won’t be getting any further snacks on Lee’s dime, the hawk nips at Lee’s finger once more, then makes its way to the window. Lee follows it. In a rush of feathers, the bird takes flight, disappearing rapidly towards the horizon.

“Thank you!” Lee calls. His downstairs neighbor, on her balcony hanging laundry, gives him an odd look. Lee shrugs it off and returns to the table. 

Once the shrimp and their associated juices are cleaned away, he turns his attention to the message and the odd brown lump. He rolls it over in his hand consideringly while he unfolds the note.

The paper is barely larger than the palm of his hand. In small, crabbed handwriting, it reads:

_White egret flower (Habenaria radiata)  
Keep cool and dry over winter. Plant in spring._

The message goes on to detail exacting instructions for the care of the plant. Lee flips the note over, but it isn’t signed. Somehow, despite never seeing the handwriting before, he’s confident of the author. Slowly, Lee realizes that the object in his other hand must be the bulb of the flower. He tucks it back into the small bag for safekeeping. He tugs the (still unreturned) book on flower language down from his bookshelf, which has become its permanent home. 

He flips through the book until he comes across a page labeled _White Egret Flower._ On the opposite page is a finely lined ink drawing of an orchid. Serrated white petals fan out from its center, like the wings of a swan. Underneath the title, he traces his finger across the meaning:

_My thoughts will follow you into your dreams._

* * *

After training that evening, Lee walks to the Yamanaka Flower Shop. Ino barely looks surprised to see him anymore.

“Back again, Lee?” she calls from her station behind the counter.

“Yes,” he admits, palm coming up to cup the burning back of his neck. He cradles the small burlap bag to his chest, hesitant. Once he’s close to the counter, he tips the contents of the bag into his cupped palm, holding the bulb out for inspection. “I got this. It’s a white egret flower. I just want to make sure I’m taking care of it right.”

“Wow,” Ino drawls, drawing out the ‘o’ for effect. “You’re becoming quite the botanist these days, huh?” She plucks the bulb from his palm with a sharp grin. Lee has to resist closing his fingers around it and clutching it back. She holds the bulb up to the light to inspect it from all angles while Lee sweats nervously. 

“Well, the good news is, the bulb’s in good shape,” Ino finally says. She returns the bulb to Lee’s hand and closes his fingers around it. “The bad news is, whoever sent it to you might hate you.”

Lee’s throat goes dry. “What?” he creaks out. 

Ino barks a laugh. “Oh my god, don’t freak out! It’s a joke.”

Lee’s body untenses, but his knees still wobble. His head feels hot and light from the emotional whiplash.

“All I meant was,” Ino continues, “these flowers are notoriously finicky to care for. Lucky for you, you have me!” She ducks down under the counter and rustles around for a few minutes before re-emerging with an armful of supplies, which she foists on Lee. He awkwardly tries to accept it all in one arm, delicately cradling the bulb in the other. “Now, you won’t need most of this for another couple months,” she says. “Until spring, all you’ll have to do is make sure it doesn’t get too hot or too wet.” 

Lee internally curses his sweaty palms as Ino launches into a lengthy instructional seminar on the right water, temperature, and soil conditions for the orchid. Everything seems to align with the directions on the note, and by the end, Lee is feeling much more confident. He juggles all the items in his arms around to reach for his wallet.

“How much do I owe you?” he asks, holding it open with his chin.

“Oh nothing, nothing, it’s on the house!” Ino smiles wide. “All in the name of love, right?”

Lee blushes bright red and stammers out excuses, trying to insist on payment, jostling with his hand extended with a few bills and coins. 

With a sharp push, Ino shoves his hand back to his chest. Lee staggers back a couple steps in surprise. Ino hops the counter and continues to push him towards the door while he babbles insistently. 

“No, I’m not hearing any more about it. Now get out of my store, I have to close up!” She harries him to the shop’s entrance. As she pushes him into the street, she catches his eye and raises one eyebrow. “There’s just one catch,” she says. “You’ll have to eventually tell me who she is.” Unceremoniously, she slams the door in his face and throws the lock. 

* * *

That night, Lee struggles to fall asleep. He rolls back and forth on his bed, full of a low simmering anxiety. He checked his bulb twice more before he went to sleep, ensuring it was tucked safely into the back of his refrigerator. He’d inspected and re-inspected the plastic wrapped around it, making sure it was free of gaps where moisture could collect. Still, he itches to go inspect the bulb one more time, as much to make sure it’s okay as to handle this small token of Gaara’s affection. 

_And it is a token of affection, isn’t it? From Gaara._ Lee’s face heats and he presses it hard into the cool side of the pillow. He burns with shame that in the past few months he hasn’t reached out, hasn’t been able to write a single word. Words, gestures, small gifts - these are all important parts of caring about someone - but Lee struggles so much with anything other than decisive action. And he does want to act, wants to do something. He just doesn’t know _what_. Without being right there, in person, in the moment, he feels adrift and unsure of what to do. Planning has never been his forte. Words have failed him and the mission roster has been less than generous to him. Still, these excuses pale in the face of the intensity of his feelings. He needs to take action. 

He clenches his fist hard and falls into a fitful sleep to the straining squeak of his pillowcase fibers tearing under his hand. 

* * *

Lee awakes underwater. The long stems of night-blooming water lilies sway around him, their roots and leaves tangling around his feet. He tugs at his ankle but the plants hold him fast. 

In the distance, through the clear blue of the water, he sees a human figure. The figure swims slowly towards him, the lilies parting in their wake. As they approach, Lee makes out more details - a sweep of red hair, the fine angle of a jaw, a dark scar across the forehead. Gaara moves through the water with such grace that Lee immediately understands this is a dream. 

Lee is rapidly losing his breath. When he goes to inhale, cold water fills his mouth and nose. Gaara seems unperturbed. He swims closer, face looming in Lee’s vision. Lee chokes and sputters, reaching out with both hands. 

Gaara cups Lee’s face in his hands, closing the distance between them. He seals his mouth to Lee’s and breathes air into his lungs. 

Lee wakes up gasping. 

* * *

Lee finds himself staring down the intimidating expanse of a blank sheet of paper, pen in hand. The dim artificial light of his kitchen clock blinks at him: 4:00 AM. He cups his hand around a mug of strong coffee, breathes in the steam, steels himself. 

_Action_ , he thinks. _Time to take action_. 

He brings the rim of the coffee cup to his mouth and downs in all in one decisive gulp. He slams the empty mug onto the table and stands, his chair screeching back to bang against the kitchen counter. 

His downstairs neighbor bangs on her ceiling with a broomstick. 

* * *

Lee does one-handed push-ups, pen in his free hand and paper to his right. 

_Dear Gaara,_ he writes, then scratches out. _Too cliche_. 

While doing crunches, he scribbles: _Dearest Gaara,_ and marks that out hastily, too. _Too sappy._

He drills left-hand punches while he scrawls _Gaara-kun,_ and draws two decisive lines through it. _Too juvenile_. 

He’s on his tenth pull-up, pen clenched between his teeth when he gets halfway through _Kazekage-sama_. He scribbles that one out with prejudice and tosses the paper aside. _Too formal_. 

He’s laying on the floor, pressing weights with his feet and holding the pen and paper above his head when he finally settles on simply _Gaara_. That strikes him as just right, like a shot straight through his heart. He quickly flips over, weights clattering to his reinforced floor, and whispers an apology through the floorboards to his neighbor. His pen scuttles across the page with barely a thought, as if the gates of his heart have been ripped open and everything inside transformed into ink. 

He signs at the bottom _Yours, Lee_ and folds all four pages neatly into an envelope before he can think too hard about it. 

Lee arrives at the post office two hours before they open and spends the time doing nervous handstand press-ups until the girl who works there opens the door to let him in with a concerned look on her face. There’s so much blood rushing to his head that he can’t even tell if he’s blushing. 

He sends the letter by regular mail, no birds.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight warning this chapter for implications of wet dreams. Also Sai is in this chapter, so penises _are_ discussed.

By mid-October, the full swell of the harvest moon dangles precipitously over the village. Lee checks his mail (and his windowsill) to increasingly shrill and threatening notices from the library and little else. Once, he meets eyes with the librarian over a basket of pears at the market, and Lee’s heart pounds so fast and hard that he’s sure she can hear it. Her glasses flash like Morse code spelling out I K-N-O-W, and he ends up abandoning his shopping in favor of surviving one more day. 

Despite his most earnest wishes, Gaara doesn’t write back. Lee turns this fact over in his mind, agitating and poking at it like a sore. He examines every possible explanation: _He’s too busy_ , or _He’s on a long mission_ , or _Your letter got lost in the mail_ , or _Maybe he’s just not that into you,_ but none bring him any satisfaction. Some nights, he sits awake, burning face pressed to the cool pane of his bedroom window, and _wishes_ as hard as he can, only to awake in the morning to find nothing has changed. 

He trains like a man possessed, hoping to fall into early, dreamless sleep. His best intentions are thwarted by dreams that wake him, hot and shame-faced, in the mornings, awkwardly waving off his neighbor’s skeptical gaze as he hangs his sheets out to dry for the third time in a week. 

Kiba starts catching his eye as soon as he walks past the doorway of the mission desk, turning him away with a shake of his head. He takes a mission to Waterfalls, and another to Hidden Rain - A-class stuff, brief but cutthroat, knife-edged, fast-paced and potentially deadly - just to keep his mind occupied. Even in the middle of the forest, sleeping in the branches of trees and under rocky outcroppings as rain drizzles down around him, he finds himself beset by nighttime visions of red hair and eyes that flash in the dark. He files his mission reports as dutifully and punctually as always, though his hand sometimes wobbles on the pen, urges him to write something else. 

On a crisp evening, Lee has the windows to his small apartment thrown wide. A cross-breeze carries the steam from his recent shower out the window. He stands swaddled in his fluffiest towel, bathed in the feeble light of his open refrigerator door, debating himself over what to make for dinner. He studiously avoids eye contact with the orchid bulb, which sits unmoving like a gentle reminder in the back of his fridge. 

His quiet contemplation is disrupted by a familiar hammering on his door. He barely has time to turn around before a loud voice announces, “I’m coming in! Hope you’re decent!” 

“Please wait, I’m n-” he stammers out, before the door is flung wide and Tenten marches in. 

Lee ducks behind a chair that does nothing to protect his modesty. 

“Ew, Lee, gross!” Tenten throws an arm over her eyes dramatically. “You could have warned me!”

“You didn’t give me enough time!” Lee protests, positioning the chair defensively. 

Tenten waves him off. “Yeah, yeah, go get dressed, and quick. We’re going to Kakashi-sensei’s house for dinner. Hope you haven’t already eaten.”

“No, I was just getting ready to- “ Lee starts, before she cuts him off.

“I don’t wanna hear about your weird old-man eating habits! I swear, you’re like a 70-year-old in a 20-year-old body. Go put some clothes on!” She shoos him into his bedroom. 

Dressed in record time, Lee follows Tenten as she hops across the roofs of Konoha, to the Hokage compound on the outskirts of town. 

“I don’t see why you make fun of me,” he complains. “I follow a perfectly regimented diet designed for optimal metabolic efficiency and superior performance. You should really try it sometime; eating so late in the day is horrible for your metabolism.”

Tenten laughs him off with a roll of her eyes. “If I ate dinner before the sun went down, I’d just be hungry again at bedtime. And you’re the one who’s always going off on me about nighttime snacking.”

“The sugar sits in your stomach all night!” Lee protests. “And you say that as if you do not have a trashcan full of candy wrappers next to your bed,” he shoots back. 

“Ooh, someone’s feeling sassy today,” Tenten dodges the criticism. “Anyway, aren’t you curious about why we’re heading over there?” 

Lee almost stumbles in his surprise. “I haven’t had the chance to think about it, since you ambushed me and then started poking fun at me,” he grins.

“Okay,” Tenten points at him with both index fingers, “that’s fair. Anyway, Gai-sensei’s got some ‘very exciting news!’” she booms in a passable imitation of her teacher. “He was gonna come tell you himself but I talked him out of it.”

Lee buries his face in his hands, but keeps an eye on his feet through a gap in his fingers. “Thank you,” he half-groans. “Kinoko-san from downstairs told me she would complain to the manager if he came by after her kids were in bed anymore.”

“Poor Kinoko-san,” Tenten drawls. “She just wanted to live a quiet life and she got stuck with you as an upstairs neighbor. The poor woman must never sleep.”

“I try very hard to be considerate!” Lee protests. “It’s just that sometimes, inadvertently, well… I get… overly enthusiastic. I’ve gotten better! I want to be a good neighbor!”

“Aww, Lee,” Tenten smiles at him reassuringly. “I know you try your best. You’re just… passionate. And you’ve gotta learn to be more _quietly_ passionate, you know?”

“Yes!” Lee cries, clenching his fist. “In order to improve myself and be a better neighbor, I will devote myself to the exercise of quiet passion! If I make so much as one bump or squeak after dark in the next week, I’ll run 400 laps around the village on my hands! If I cannot complete the 400 laps, then I will do 800 push-ups! If I-”

Tenten skids to a halt in front of Kakashi-sensei’s door, a cloud of dust billowing behind her feet. “We’re here!” she announces. “Time to stop beating yourself up.”

Lee’s face pales. “Oh no,” he says. “Isn’t it rude to show up at someone’s house for dinner without anything? Should we have brought something? Flowers? A bottle of sake?”

“Lee, you don’t even drink,” Tenten cuffs him on the back of his head. “Chill out, what did I just say about beating yourself up?”

“Right, right,” Lee straightens his back and raises his fist to knock on the doorframe. 

Tenten beats him to it with a thunderous pounding of her fist, then deftly leaps out of the way as close to a dozen dogs swarm through the doorway and run roughshod over Lee, bowling him over in a heap of limbs, wagging tails, and licking tongues. 

“Oh, hello everyone!” Lee yells over the barking and yipping. Tenten grabs the neck of his jumpsuit and pulls him to standing. Lee reaches down to pat each wriggling head, stooping to lift a particularly chubby and adorable brown puppy and holding her at eye level. 

“I’m so sorry I didn’t bring you any treats!” Lee says, giggling as the puppy thoroughly bathes his face with her tongue. “You are so very cute, though!”

He doesn’t notice the Hokage standing behind the writhing pack of dogs until he hears a soft cough. Kakashi-sensei leans against the doorjamb, a passive look on his face, Pakkun sitting sedately at his heels. 

“Hey kid, hands off the new recruits,” Pakkun chides him. 

Lee’s face falls in embarrassment. He gently returns the puppy to the ground. “I’m so sorry-” he stammers, “I didn’t realize-” The puppy jumps and paws at his ankles. 

“Koko-chan, heel,” Kakashi commands, pointing to the ground beside him. The puppy gives Lee one last longing look over her shoulder before trotting to sit at Kakashi's feet. Kakashi immediately scoops her up into his arms and cradles her like a baby, rubbing her tummy. Pakkun rolls his eyes. 

Kakashi then turns to regard each of them with a blank gaze. Lee sheepishly brushes dirt off the back of his jumpsuit while Tenten discreetly tries to hush the rest of the pack. There’s a long moment of awkward silence.

“What are you doing here,” Kakashi eventually deadpans. “I don’t remember assigning you a mission.”

Lee and Tenten exchange a glance.

“I’m so sorry, Hokage-sama!” Lee blurts. “There must have been some kind of misunderstanding! I-” 

He’s cut off by the screech of wheels and the booming of a voice from inside the entryway. “Kakashi! Are you tormenting my adorable pupils?” Gai-sensei wheels through the doorway, expression thunderous, but quickly breaking into mirth when he meets eyes with Lee and Tenten. 

Kakashi’s good eye wrinkles in mischief. “Aww, Gai, I almost had them,” he says, turning back into the house. The pack of dogs scrambles to follow him. 

“Still such a jokester, rival!” Gai elbows Kakashi sharply in the side as he passes. “But your too-cool-for-school attitude won’t fool my students! They’re much too sharp for that!” 

Tenten kicks at Lee’s heel before he can say that no, he was pretty much completely fooled. “Thank you for inviting us over,” she says with her politest smile. 

“Of course!” Gai thunders as they follow him into the house. “I always look forward to a chance to see my precious students!” Gai steers them into the kitchen and bustles around until they’re comfortably seated. “Please, make yourselves at home!” he cries. “Unfortunately, Kakashi insisted on cooking today, so you won’t have the chance to try my newest recipe!”

To his left, Lee hears Tenten whisper a quick prayer of thanks. 

The evening passes in boisterous companionship. The food is surprisingly good, and the company even better. Kakashi reluctantly introduces them to the five new ninken he’s been training (“In preparation for his retirement,” Gai stage-whispers, while Kakashi sighs and rolls his eye). Gai regales them with tales of his latest exploits as “The 6th Hokage’s Official Advisor and Unofficial Bodyguard”, which mostly seems to consist of him providing unsolicited advice and harrying Kakashi around the village, if Kakashi’s muttered comments have any truth to them. Lee washes the dishes and Tenten dries them over Gai’s protests (who knew the Hokage was such a messy cook?). 

They all retire to the spacious living area, mostly covered in dog beds, to sit with their feet under the kotatsu. Koko toddles sleepily into Lee’s lap and dozes off while he scratches her ears. 

“Ahh, aren’t you going to tell them your big news, Gai?” Kakashi asks. “Surely you haven’t forgotten _why_ you invited your students over in the first place?” 

“Certainly not!” Gai confirms, but the slight reddening of his ears suggests he’s been caught flat-footed. 

“Mmm, is that so,” Kakashi hums neutrally. “Well, I’ll let you tell them while I go get your blanket. Can’t have you catching a cold in here while the rest of us warm our feet.”

“I can get it myself!” Gai protests, but Kakashi leaves the room before he’s even finished his sentence. Gai falls into muttering - something about _being coddled_ and _my independence_. 

Tenten cuts him off with a question: “So, sensei, what’s your big news? We’re so curious!”

“Yes!” Gai pounds the arm of his wheelchair and the metal creaks dangerously. “The good news! You both know I’ve been restricted to missions within the village for some time,” he begins. Lee nods along, attention rapt. “And as much as I love my home, still the spirit of a ninja chafes against any constraint! My blood continues to burn with a passion to spread my wings and travel beyond the confines of our home. To continue to pursue my ninja way, both within and without the village!”

Lee clenches his fists, eyes welling up. His sensei is so strong, so noble in spirit! To think that he’s been so unfairly relegated to only domestic missions all this time! The unfairness of it stings at his heart. 

“But,” Gai continues, “just last week, I received the most miraculous news. Finally, those stick-in-the-mud doctors at the hospital approved me for full duty!” 

Lee bursts into tears immediately. He and Tenten both spring to their feet and embrace their teacher. 

“This is such wonderful news!” Lee wails, squeezing his sensei so tight that the frame of his chair creaks. 

“I’m really happy for you, sensei,” Tenten says, patting his back. 

Once they’ve resumed their seats (and Koko has returned to Lee’s lap with a most disgruntled expression at having her nap disrupted), Kakashi re-enters the room, a turtle-patterned throw over one arm. Lee is still weeping profusely. 

“I see the news went over well,” he drawls, tucking the blanket around Gai’s legs and pressing a casual kiss to the crown of his head. The sweet domesticity of the gesture only makes Lee sob all the harder. “Did you tell them where your first mission is?” Kakashi asks, as he settles down to the floor. Bisuke immediately lays his head in his lap. 

“Ah, no!” Gai straightens in his chair, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “I’ll be accompanying the Hokage’s delegation on a mission to Suna just next week!” 

Lee attempts to school his expression into neutrality, but he doubts anyone in the room missed the way his eyebrows raised at the mention of the destination. 

“Strictly an administrative trip,” Kakashi adds. “He’ll be serving in an advisory capacity.”

“But of course, should any ruffians attempt to interfere with our diplomatic mission, I’ll be sure to show them what-for!” Gai shouts, fist raised. 

“I doubt we’ll encounter any ruffians,” Kakashi demurs. 

“If they know what’s good for them, they’ll stay well-shot of us!” Gai nods emphatically. 

“That sounds wonderful, sensei,” Tenten interjects. “But isn’t it awfully, well … sandy? What if your chair gets stuck on the way?”

“My student is so thoughtful!” Gai cries. “Not to worry, though, I’ve planned for every eventuality. Just a moment, I’ll show-” 

“I’ll get them,” Kakashi interrupts, easing himself to his feet. Bisuke drops his head to the floor with a grumble. 

“But I-!” Gai interjects.

“No, no, they’re your students. Stay and entertain them. I’ll be right back,” Kakashi is out of the room again before Gai can raise any further complaint. 

Gai leans forward conspiratorially and lowers his voice to a slightly-less-ear-rattling boom. “You know, if either of you has something that you’d like to send to _someone in particular_ ,” he makes direct eye contact with Lee and Lee’s face grows hot, “I’d be happy to take it for you.” 

“I- uh, I- I…” The words stick in Lee’s throat like a burr. Tenten elbows him so hard that he coughs in surprise.

“I’ll think about it!” he chokes out. _How does Gai-sensei know?_ He panics but does his best to keep a confident smile on his face. 

He’s saved by Kakashi’s return, lugging a massive wheel under each arm. He calmly regards all of their expressions. 

“Ah, who’s torturing your students now?” he says. 

Gai spins around in his chair in outrage. “I would never- Oh! My all-terrain tires!” 

Gai drags them to the courtyard to show off his new tires. He really is remarkably maneuverable with them, despite their apparent weight, as expected from their incredible teacher. They pass quite some time there, watching Gai race around, whooping and hollering, until Tenten complains that she’s freezing and it’s getting late. 

Lee walks the long way home, sticking to the streets and alleys rather than the rooftops, consumed with his thoughts. _Something to send to Suna…_ he ruminates, fretting. _But what?_

As he turns the corner past the Yamanaka flower shop, their beautifully illustrated advertisements hanging in the window, he’s struck by a sudden bolt of inspiration. He races the rest of the way home and slams the door to his apartment open. He cringes, whispers an apology to his floorboards, and runs to the bookshelf to pull down his book.

* * *

After a penitent 400 laps around the village (and the subsequent 800 push-ups for failing the 400 laps, and the 1,000 sit-ups that he had to do for not finishing the push-ups, and the 1,500 kick-punches he did to make up for miscounting his sit-ups), Lee finds Sai, surrounded by ink and brushes, sprawled out on his stomach on a hill overlooking the lake. 

“Oh, caterpillar-brows,” Sai greets him with a closed-eyed smile. “It’s nice to see you. How’s meatball-hair?”

“Hello, Sai,” Lee says, settling down next to him on the grass. “Tenten’s fine, thanks for asking.” 

Sai rolls to sitting, sketchpad cradled in his lap. He sits so still that it’s vaguely unnerving, fixing Lee with an uncomfortably level stare.

“Um, I was just coming by to ask you, do you know how to draw gardenias?” Lee falters. 

“Sure,” Sai says, turning to a new page in his sketchpad. He starts drawing, eyes never straying to the page. His gaze is eerily distant, focused on some fixed point just over Lee’s shoulder. 

“That’s great! Would you be willing to draw one for me?” Lee asks. 

“Sure,” Sai repeats. Lee notices that in all the time they’ve been sitting here, Sai hasn’t blinked once. He closes his eyes hard, and Sai imitates him, mechanically. 

“Thanks so much!” Lee says. “How long do you think it will take you?” 

Sai looks down at his pad and grins that Cheshire grin again. “It’s already finished.” He rips the sheet of paper out of his sketchpad and holds it out to Lee. 

Lee reaches out for the paper, half-stunned. The drawing is intricately rendered, each petal fanning gracefully from the center in a sumptuous arc. The leaves look so real Lee almost imagines he could reach through the paper and touch them. 

“Wow,” he breathes. “How much do I owe you?” He starts patting the pockets of his jumpsuit for his wallet.

Sai tilts his head to the side, still not letting go of his side of the paper. He hums, pausing. Then at length, he says, “Have you seen the Kazekage’s penis?”

Lee almost falls over in shock. “No! What? I- How did you- !” he blusters. “Sai, that’s very inappropriate!” he shouts, face flooded red.

“So that’s a no,” Sai purses his lips in a moue of disappointment. “Then, it’s yours.” He finally releases the paper.

Lee clutches it back, aghast.

“You will tell me when you _do_ see it, though, won’t you?” Sai asks with an innocent lilt of his chin. “I’m very curious.”

“I- I- no!” Lee shouts.

“So you are _planning_ to see it,” Sai ventures.

“I- how did you- stop that!” Lee shouts. “How would you even know something like that!” His face is burning. 

“Word travels fast,” Sai says, face breaking into the first genuine smile Lee’s seen from him since he arrived. He gestures at Lee, up and down, with his ink brush. “And no guy who wears _that_ suit could possibly be straight.”

Lee opens his mouth to protest, stammers, shuts his mouth again. _He has a point._

“See?” Sai says in a teasing tone. “Now, I have to get back to my actual work. Tell meatball-hair I said ‘hi’.”

“Right!” Lee yells, already scrambling to get as far away from this conversation as he possibly can. “Thank you!” he calls over his shoulder. 

He runs all the way home and slams the door hard behind him. Kinoko’s baby downstairs starts to cry. Lee quickly tucks the gardenia drawing into his book for safekeeping before he starts on his 500 push-up penitence, wedging it just beneath its meaning: 

_Secret love_

* * *

The day that Gai-sensei leaves for his mission, Lee meets him at the gates. Gai's chair is laden down with heavy bags, and Lee almost wishes he could accompany him on his trip, to help share the weight. Of course, he knows his teacher would never accept such help.

Gai is right at the front of the group preparing to leave, popping excited wheelies when Lee arrives. Lee flags him down with a wave and an enthusiastic shout of “Gai-sensei!”

“Lee!” Gai shouts back.

“Gai-sensei!” Lee replies, running up to him.

“Lee!” Gai yells again.

“Knock it off!” yells one of the Hokage’s guard. The assembled ninja burst into laughter as Gai wheels over to the side to speak with him.

“Gai-sensei, I have something for you to take to someone… very precious,” Lee starts. 

“Ah-ha!” Gai crows triumphantly. “I had the feeling you might say that!” 

Lee rubs the back of his neck nervously as he pulls an envelope from his vest pocket. Folded inside is the picture and another letter (shorter, this time). On the front of the envelope he’s written, simply: _Gaara_. He holds the envelope out to Gai.

“Please make sure it arrives safely,” he says. “I’m not sure if my last letter got lost…” he trails off.

Gai takes the envelope, reading the name with a slight raising of his eyebrows. 

“Huh,” he says, at length. “So the rumors were … mostly true.” He meets Lee’s eyes with a megawatt smile. “Not to worry, my adorable pupil! I will ensure your precious cargo reaches its destination!” He raises a thumb and grins so his teeth catch the light. 

Lee grins back and extends his thumb too, even as his heart races with nerves. “Thank you very much, Gai-sensei!” he says. 

Gai tucks the letter carefully into his front vest pocket, just over his heart. He pats the pocket and catches Lee’s eye, his expression suddenly serious. He lowers his voice. “Don’t worry, Lee,” he says, clapping his shoulder hard. “I’m sure your feelings will reach him.” 

Lee’s knees almost buckle, either from relief or from the force of Gai's hand pressing down on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he whispers, eyes watering. 

“We’re off!” someone calls from the back of the gathered ninja. Gai turns to join the group, waving goodbye. 

Lee stands waving at the gate until they’re out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to the GaaLee Discord server and especially to Eeri (ContrEeri on Ao3, check them out!) who productivity sprinted with me and helped me get this chapter done in record time! I can't guarantee that I'll always have updates out this fast, but it does feel good to be able to publish again so soon after the first chapter. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor TW this chapter for mentions of self-directed violence (not self-harm) and vague (non-graphic) descriptions of vomiting.

Gai-sensei returns from his mission empty handed. Lee tries not to let himself feel too disappointed. It must be very busy, being Kazekage, he reasons to himself, and Gaara has never been particularly good with words. Maybe he needs time to think over what Lee had written, or perhaps he needs some space and Lee is moving too fast. Maybe Lee misunderstood altogether, and their kiss was just a one-time mistake. Maybe the white egret bulb sitting in the back of his fridge is nothing more than a flower. Lee’s heart clenches at the thought and he scolds himself for thinking so negatively. 

Even if his feelings aren’t returned, Gaara is still his dear friend, maybe even his most important person. And Lee isn’t ready to give up on winning his heart just yet. 

So Lee continues to write, often enough. Rarely a long letter, usually nothing more than a short note. When he doesn’t have time to write at all, he sends a photograph: the newest wooden posts at his favorite training grounds, a smooth river rock shaped like a heart, carnations entwined in a vase on his kitchen table, the curry he made for dinner. All throughout the fall and into the winter, he mails little trinkets that he picks up on missions away: a sachet of camellia seeds from the Hidden Waterfall Village, a tiny figurine of a snake with charming green eyes from Fang Country, a rough-hewn sandstone teacup from Tea Country, sweet hard candies from Honey Country. The girl who opens the post office in the morning comes to know him by name. Still, his mailbox remains empty, his window undisturbed by further birds. 

In late December, when the village is thrumming with the chatter of couples making romantic holiday plans, Lee decides he’ll apply to take the jounin exam.

* * *

“You know I could promote you right now and put a stop to this whole charade,” Kakashi-sensei says. Lee stands in front of his desk, exam application in hand. “I have more than enough recommendations for you here.” He gestures to an untidy stack of letters, each labeled with Lee’s name. 

“The esteem of others is very valuable to me, but I feel it is even more important to achieve this promotion through my own hard work alone,” Lee insists.

“You know this is the most civilian recommendation letters I’ve ever received?” Kakashi says, spreading the letters across his desk. “Look, here’s one from your landlord, this one’s from the old lady who runs the tea shop … hell, there’s even one from that downstairs neighbor of yours that Gai’s always complaining about. I'm pretty sure your teacher's been out petitioning in your favor.”

Lee nods the affirmative. He is fairly certain Kinoko-san has recommended his promotion because she thinks it will keep him out of the village more often. “I understand, Hokage-sama- ”

“Just Kakashi, please-” 

“- but I feel as a ninja who is unable to perform ninjutsu or genjutsu that I must prove my worth to the village by passing the exam!” Lee exclaims. 

“Right,” Kakashi drawls. “Because your multiple feats of valor, exemplary mission record, and status as a war hero isn’t enough.”

“Correct!” Lee confirms. “My goal is to become a splendid ninja who only uses taijutsu. That is my ninja way!”

“It’s your funeral,” Kakashi sighs, stamping his application with a decisive _thump_. 

Out in the hallway, Lee hears Gai-sensei burst into sobs.

* * *

As the first snow of winter falls on Konoha, Lee begins his training in earnest. He spends endless hours at the training grounds, doubles his ankle weights, increases his laps around the village, and wakes up an hour earlier each day. 

Gai-sensei writes him an optimal nutrition plan that mostly consists of tasteless protein balls, leafy green vegetables, and unending bowls of plain brown rice. Tenten lays traps for him in the woods and times him while he disables exploding tags and dodges tripwires. Sakura puts him under genjutsu after genjutsu, each crueler than the last, and he jabs himself with senbon to break them until his right thigh goes numb and he has to switch to his left. Hinata and Hanabi pair up to attack him with Gentle Fist and he practices fighting them off with half his chakra points disabled. He tries (and fails) to outwit Shikamaru, to cover his tracks from Kiba and Akamaru, and to conceal himself from Shino’s insects. When he can’t outthink them, he is at least assured he can outrun them and outfight them. 

In January, Lee breaks 14 training posts in a week and leaves a score down the center of the training field deeper than the average man is tall. After that, the Hokage exiles him to practice outside of the village, in the hilly, wooded areas frequented by little more than wildlife. Sakura throws boulders at him so he can kick and punch them into gravel. Sai sends massive ink monsters to chase him down and Lee uses the heat from his body to burn his beast scrolls apart. Tenten scores him with venom-laced kunai until he can identify all the common poisons by their effects and readily select their antidotes. He opens the third and fourth gates again and again, until the exhaustion is comfortable and routine. 

When the first green tips of grass break through the melting snow, Lee walks to the Hokage’s office and selects his official exam date. 

He sends Gaara a letter, to let him know that he may not be able to write for a while. Each jounin exam is different, and Lee isn’t sure how long his will last, or how long his recovery may be afterwards. At the bottom of the letter he presses a dried Anemone, for _patience_.

* * *

One week before his exam, Lee wends his way down the cherry blossom-lined path to the memorial stone, bucket and dipper in one hand and a fistful of red spider lilies in the other. The black obelisk casts a long shadow, the morning sun is low and bright white in the sky. 

Lee kneels at the base of the stone’s cool, impersonal facade and takes a small bundle from the pouch at his waist. He unties it and arranges the cloth neatly, each corner at a perfect right angle, each side perfectly straight. He unwraps the onigiri inside and sets them exactly in the center of the napkin, just the way he remembers Neji laying out his lunches.

“Hello, old friend. I brought you some snacks. They’re herring, your favorite. I’m sorry it couldn’t be soba; I was afraid it would spill on the way over,” Lee says, the same apology he makes during every visit to the stone. 

He adds his flowers to the vases at the base of the monument, already overflowing with lilies and chrysanthemums. He carefully removes any dead stems or brown leaves and sets them aside to take with him. He dips his ladle into the bucket and begins pouring water over the stone, taking special care to wash away any dirt from Neji’s name. The stone is well-frequented, so cleaning it is almost unnecessary, but tradition was important to Neji, and so it is important to Lee, too. 

As he cleans, he chats idly with the stone’s blank face. “You know, I’m going to take the jounin exam next week,” Lee says. “Soon, I’ll have caught up with you, at long last.” He scratches a bit of muck from the downstroke of the final character in Neji’s name with his fingernail. A wet chuckle breaks free from his throat. “If you were still here, no doubt you’d already be far ahead of me again.” He sets the bucket aside and presses his palms together. “It seems unfair, doesn’t it? I hope you will look out for me, even so.” 

Lee is not a particularly spiritual person. Rarely does he feel any sort of warmth when he visits the stone, looks up at its sharp peak cutting the sky in half. More often, he feels Neji’s presence in the light breeze that brushes through his hair after he has trained particularly hard and collapsed in victory, or when he and Tenten share a bad joke during a meal and both turn their heads instinctively to the empty chair at his kitchen table. His visits to the stone are more ceremony than anything, an obligation and a duty, although he hopes that wherever Neji is, he appreciates the gesture. 

Today, though, the sun lazes down and breaks across the surface of the stone. The wind picks up and sets the bells in the trees that surround the clearing to ringing. If Lee only half-listens, the rustle of the leaves sounds like a quiet laughter, the warmth of the light across his shoulders like a familiar embrace. Confidence swells in his heart.

“I’ve been training a lot, I think I’m ready,” he whispers to the stone. “Wish me luck.” He presses his forehead to the stone for a long moment before he departs. 

On the way out of the cemetery he stops for a brief moment at a worn, unassuming grave tucked back in the corner of a small plot. The stone is labeled simply “Lee”, no first names, no dates or details. The grave belongs to his parents, the ones he doesn’t even have a photograph of. He stops here less often than he visits the memorial stone; he rarely has the right words or prayers. What do you say to two people you’ve never met? Nonetheless, he clears away the worst of the weeds in silence, dutifully wipes down the front of the stone, and leaves behind a single lily. 

The whisper of the breeze and the faint tinkle of bells sees him home.

* * *

On the evening before the exam, Lee’s white egret flower sprouts. It’s a tiny thing, two pointed leaves just cresting the surface of the soil, moist and bright green. He gently strokes the edges of the leaves, whispering encouragement. He probes the soil to ensure it’s wet enough and triple-checks the list of instructions he left for Tenten. 

The sun is still riding high in the sky, but Lee is getting ready to prepare his dinner and make an early night of it. After all, there’s no telling how much sleep he’ll be able to get during the exam. His bag sits packed and ready by his door, stuffed full with rations, weapons, bandages, and antidotes. He’s boiling water for noodles when he hears a rapping at his window. 

He looks up and locks eyes with the beady stare of a hawk. The fine brown plumage of its head gleams and it raises its head haughtily. Lee bustles to the window and throws it open. The hawk flutters to his kitchen table with a disgruntled ruffling of feathers. Hanging from its neck is a familiar grey message bag.

Inside the hawk’s carrier is a tiny burlap sack, which he opens, shaking the contents loose. A small brown stone, no larger than the marble, rolls across his wooden table with a clatter. A tiny white slip of paper floats down behind it. The hawk nips at Lee’s fingers with irritation.

The note is blank on the back and Lee flips it over to reveal just a few words in that tight, messy scrawl:

_Bezoar, for poison and good luck._

Lee holds the stone up to the light for a better look. It’s smooth, round and striped, shining faintly. Lee has heard of bezoars before but has never had the chance to see one up close; they aren’t commonly used in Konoha. It looks more like it came from a gem shop than from the belly of an animal. 

The gesture is so thoughtful, but it leaves Lee no clearer about Gaara’s emotional state than before. Does this mean he returns Lee’s feelings? Or is he just looking out for a comrade preparing for battle?

The hawk squawks indignantly, bringing Lee’s attention back to the present. He grabs a single piece of raw beef from the fridge and holds it out for the hawk to nibble from his fingers. As soon as it’s swallowed the beef, it starts pecking around at his hand for more. 

“No, that’s all you get this time,” Lee says, holding his hand out flat to show that it’s empty. The hawk whistles at him and he chucks it under its chin. 

“Thank you,” Lee says, sincerely. As he gets up to tuck the bezoar into his pack, the hawk lands back on his windowsill. It rucks up all its feathers, exposing its long and surprisingly fluffy legs. Lee watches it, preparing for it to take flight with a charmed smile on his face. The hawk turns its head to catch Lee’s eye over its shoulder. Then, making sustained, direct eye contact, it deposits a long string of poop on his windowsill. 

“Oh come on!” Lee yells. 

The hawk turns its head, jauntily arranges its feathers, and takes off into the early evening sky, vanishing from his view in an instant.

* * *

The morning of the exam breaks with clear sunshine and fresh dew on the ground. Lee stands on a patch of grass outside the Forest of Death, pack heavy on his back and heart strumming with nerves. The round distension caused by the bezoar in his overstuffed vest pocket presses a dent into his left pectoral. 

Tenten is there to see him off, along with Gai-sensei. In an arc in front of the entrance to the forest stands the Hokage, flanked by the assemblage of jounin who will administer the exam. 

Gai tugs at the straps of Lee’s pack, making sure they’re secure. Tears spill down his face. 

“Truly, my adorable pupil, this is a momentous occasion. I am certain I will see you on the other side of this trial, victorious. And to ensure that happens - “ Gai pulls out a wrapped package with a flourish. “- I’ve prepared homemade rations for you!” Gai cranes his neck up with a conspiratorial whisper and Lee bends down to hear him. “They’re a special formulation of my own devising - protein-filled dumplings stuffed with chakra pills for maximum energy and efficiency!” he hisses. 

Lee gives his sensei a watery grin and a thumbs up, tucking the package into the only free space at his waistband. 

Tenten steps behind him and tightens his hitai-ate. “You’re gonna do great,” she whispers in his ear, squeezing his shoulders. 

“Thank you both so much,” Lee says, voice warbling with emotion. 

The Hokage clears his throat and Lee jolts to attention. 

“Your mission is simple,” Kakashi-sensei says. “Retrieve the scroll marked with the Leaf Village symbol that’s been hidden in the forest and return it here. The information contained in the scroll is confidential, and valuable. The scroll must not be damaged, opened, or destroyed. You have 14 days. Upon successful completion of this mission, you will be awarded the rank of jounin. Do you accept your assignment?”

“Yes, sir!” Lee shouts with a salute.

“Then begin.” Kakashi and the rest of the jounin leap away from the gate in an instant. Lee braces himself and darts inside, his teammate’s and sensei’s cheers at his back. The gate slams behind him with an ominous _clang_.

* * *

Lee spends his first day in the forest getting himself settled. He locates a source of water, finds a rocky overhang where he can take shelter, and sets snares to catch a few birds and small mammals, which he roasts over a tiny campfire when the sun goes down. He’s loath to use up his rations if he can avoid it; although the mission seems simple from the outset, he doubts that’s all the exam has in store for him. 

With a home base established, he’s more easily able to defend himself from the vicious creatures that populate the forest and make brief forays out into the wilderness to explore and look for clues. Leaving his pack back in the cave allows him to move more swiftly and cover much more ground than he would otherwise. Unfortunately, tracking is not Lee’s strong suit, a factor that was almost certainly taken into consideration in the construction of the exam. He has to rely on his limited knowledge of the typical patterns local flora and fauna and scout for signs of human interference to guide his way. 

His first day of exploration is largely fruitless, although he is able to identify a copse of blackberry bushes not too far from his temporary shelter, from which he gathers his evening meal. The weather so far has been in his favor, a small blessing, but looming clouds on the horizon suggest that his luck won’t last long; a storm is likely to roll in by tomorrow. The heavy spring rains will wash away most footprints, and with them, Lee’s best chances of finding the hidden scroll. 

Lee makes an early start the next morning, as thunderclouds mass on the horizon. He follows a deer path through the densest part of the woods, searching for any unusually high broken branches or kunai marks on trees. The sky is growing grey, clouds low and threatening, and Lee is close to turning in for the evening when he spies it, just on the edge of a clearing: the crescent edge of a footprint, ridged in the familiar pattern of shinobi sandals. 

He treads carefully closer, eyes low to the ground and scanning for the telltale shine of tripwires concealed in the underbrush. He sees nothing. As he crests the boundary between the thicket and the grass, he catches sight of a human figure, strolling along the far side of the open space. Lee crouches low to the ground, keeping his body concealed, his goal to maintain the edge of surprise in the event he needs to fight. The figure moves closer to him, seemingly oblivious. In the fading light, Lee makes out thick eyebrows, the stern line of a mouth, the tense set of a jaw. Gradually, realization dawns on him - this is his uncle, who he hasn’t seen since he dropped Lee off at the orphanage over 15 years ago. _What is he doing here?_

“Rock,” his uncle’s voice carries across the clearing. “Come out here. You aren’t fooling anyone with that ridiculous behavior.” 

Lee stands, brushing leaves off his leg-warmers with a grimace, shoulders taut. 

“Just as incompetent as ever, I see,” his uncle calls, stepping closer. “Come here so I can get a better look at you.” 

Lee takes a step forward as if compelled. His uncle’s eyes meet his, his stare intense. Lee reaches up to protect the burning nape of his neck instinctively. His body feels tiny under the weight of that glare, shrunken down to be five years old again. 

“Who do you think you’re kidding? Out here in the woods, playing ninja! Don’t you know, you will _never_ make anything of yourself if you cling to this delusion!” His uncle gestures expansively, encompassing the whole of Lee. 

“That’s not true-!” Lee begins to protest, and that’s when he sees it. Just at the edge of his uncle’s fingertips, a slight blur. _A genjutsu,_ he realizes. Internally, Lee kicks himself. _So stupid, how could I possibly think that he of all people would-_ Before he allows himself to finish that thought, he slides a senbon from his sleeve and jams it, hard, into his thigh. The warmth of the blood trickling down his leg grounds him, real where his vision isn’t. 

The illusion of his uncle flickers, twice, but rematerializes and holds steady. 

“So weak!” the illusion yells. “Surely you didn’t think that something like that would get rid of-” 

Lee clenches a fist. There’s a decisive _snap_ as his left pinky breaks. Sharp pain stabs up his arm and his uncle’s image fades away. 

Lee shakes his arm, hissing. He reorients himself and finds the footprint on the ground. Just to the left of it, half-hidden under a leaf, is another footprint, and Lee walks toward it. 

As he approaches, another figure rounds the tree in front of him. Creased forehead, shiny black hair tied back in a severe bun, a stained apron - his aunt, his uncle’s wife, also gone from his life for well over a decade. 

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the shame of our family. Talentless, no-good -”

Lee breaks his right pinky and she, too, fades out of existence. 

The visions lead him around the forest for an unknowable amount of time. Every rock and tree conceals another apparition. Here, his faceless mother and father, bodies shapeless and indistinct, who tell him they don’t regret dying because it means they won’t have to see him fail. He snaps each of his ring fingers in turn and they vanish. Here, Sakura, face bloodied and hair shorn, accuses him of forgetting his childhood promise to her. The sharp _crack_ of his left middle finger breaking dispatches her too. 

Meanwhile, the clouds have opened up and Lee’s jumpsuit adheres to his skin, rain trickling down the back of his neck like cooling blood. He staggers towards another distant footprint, his own breathing ragged in his ears. Gaara looms into his vision from behind a bramble bush, his red hair dark and water trailing down his face like tear tracks. 

“I wish I had killed you when I had the chance,” he says. 

“You would have if you could have, but I’m glad you didn’t,” Lee replies, then breaks his other middle finger. Gaara fades out of sight. 

Whoever is behind the genjutsu is both skilled and cruel, or at least knows him well. The imitation of Neji’s voice, which brushes across his ear, is almost pitch perfect. A white apparition hovers just out of the edge of his sight, flitting out of his field of vision every time he jerks his head. 

“You have never been a worthy rival to me,” it whispers. 

“Maybe not, but I will be,” Lee retorts. He uses his thumb to bend his left index finger until it, too, breaks. The ghost dissolves with a hush and a whisper, but is quickly replaced by Tenten, who drops into view from above. Her eyes are fierce and the kunai extended in her hand pricks at his neck in a way that feels all too real. 

“You should have never become a ninja,” she says, throat thick with tears. “If you had been stronger, Neji would never have died. I blame you.” The disgust in her expression is palpable, if just slightly off, the color of her eyes just a shade too dark. Somehow, the more familiar the person is, the easier it is for Lee to recognize the figure as a genjutsu. 

Lee winces an apology as he shatters his right index finger with a quick press of his thumb. The illusion of Tenten melts away into the pouring rain. 

Lee takes a deep breath. Eight of his ten fingers now dangle useless at his sides. He flexes both thumbs, now his only working digits, and turns away from the footprint trail to make his way back to his encampment, shoulders hunched and defeated. 

His pathway is blocked by Gai-sensei, the wheels of his chair convincingly caked with mud, his expression downcast. He doesn’t make eye contact with Lee, but the set of his shoulders is just this side of too wide, the tilt of his head ever so slightly unnatural. 

“I’m disappointed in you,” is all he says. Lee bites the inside of his cheek to hold back his tears, but he doesn’t doubt that it’s a falsehood for a second. He brings his left hand to his mouth and bites the base of his thumb, bending it backwards until he hears a _crack_. Gai, too, vanishes into the mist. 

* * *

Lee collapses back at his makeshift campsite, soaking wet and exhausted. The clouds are so thick in the sky, the sheets of rain pouring down so intense, that he can hardly determine the time of day, much less what day it is. He has no way of knowing how long he was under the genjutsu, but the aching hunger in his stomach tells him it may have been several days. He therefore also has no idea how much time he has left before he fails his mission by default. 

He fumbles open his pack and roughly tapes all his fingers together, pulling the bandages between his lips. He has no means to craft a splint, so this will have to do for now; he only hopes that he won’t end up permanently disabled from it. If he gets out of the forest soon enough, before infection sets in, he’ll likely be able to keep all his fingers. 

With only a single working thumb, he stands no chance of catching his own dinner, much less making a fire. He maneuvers open Gai-sensei’s package of rations, tearing the plastic open with his teeth and spilling several dumplings across the dirt floor. The pungent stench of garlic floods the moist air - a hallmark of Gai’s cooking, over-seasoned and too flavorful by half. Lee isn’t too proud to press his face to the ground, picking the dumplings up with his mouth and only half-heartedly chewing before he swallows. The flavor is unusual and unpleasant, a little sweet and vaguely metallic, but at least it settles the raging hunger in his stomach and allows him to drift into a fitful sleep. 

* * *

Lee wakes up in the middle of the night to his stomach cramping. He rolls over on the ground and retches, his abdomen clenching and body caked with sweat. He shakes, dizzy and disoriented, and fumbles his way out from underneath the stone overhang to be sick in a bush. In the pale moonlight he makes out a faint redness spreading on the skin of his arms, making him itch. 

Slowly, his mind spinning, he puts together the facts: the smell of garlic, the taste of metal, and the symptoms: nausea, vomiting, sweating, diffuse rash. _Arsenic poisoning_. The previous evening stutters into sharp clarity: the dumplings had been poisoned. 

Lee shakes his head, futilely attempting to clear his mind. He was foolish to think that the exam would only have started with the word “begin”. He should have been more alert for betrayal, even from his beloved teacher. His legs tremble and he feels like he may be sick again. He bends over and feels something small and round jabbing into his chest that causes him to straighten. _A bezoar, for poison and good luck._

With his remaining good thumb, he loosens his vest pocket and flicks the stone into his mouth. He swallows it whole, the bulge of it smooth but discomfiting down his throat. His legs tremble and give out next to the bush, rain gently drizzling over his exhausted form, and he falls into unconsciousness.

* * *

Lee awakes, miraculously, the next morning. The sun beats down on him, his filthy jumpsuit dried and tacky on his skin. Though his arms are lightly sunburnt, the rash is mostly gone. He staggers to his feet, unsteady but not unwell. His stomach is unexpectedly calm. He packs away the detritus of the previous evening the best he can, using his palms and wrists to lift the remaining dumplings into a hastily dug hole and covering them with soil. Too much pressure on his hands causes his fingers to throb, so the hole is messy and the coverage far from perfect, but it’s better than nothing. He’d prefer if no animals ingested the poison unintentionally. 

Stretching, Lee looks around his tiny camp. He doubts he has much time left, and the rain will have washed away the best of his leads. Instead, he decides to get some height, hoping a change in altitude will give him a better perspective on his challenge. 

Lee traverses the forest until he finds a suitably tall tree to scale. Climbing the tree with his lower limbs alone is far from easy, but soon enough, he is able to sling a leg over a high branch and look out over the majority of the forest. To the east he sees the serrated gray tile roof of the stucco tower that marks the center of the forest. To his west is the 1st entrance gate, the one he entered through. All around him is dense foliage, pockmarked here and there with craggy rock and patches of bare earth. Nowhere does he see any indication that a scroll may be hidden. 

Then, he hears an irritated chirruping just behind him. He cranes his head back. On the far end of the branch sits a small brown squirrel, its round grey face punctuated with dark eyes atop chubby cheeks. Lee grins.

“Oh, hello there!” he says.

The squirrel burrs back at him, tentatively clambering closer. 

Lee reaches out his bandaged hand to coax it forward, then hesitates. Could this be another genjutsu, preying on his love of animals and designed to lure him into a false sense of security?

The squirrel meets his eye and tilts its head to the left, studying him. All of a sudden it bursts into chattering, scrambling over his hand (Lee cringes) and up his arm to rest on his shoulder. It’s then that Lee spies the faint scar along its back, the remnants of an old burn from an exploding tag. Lee breaks into a massive smile.

“Well hello, old friend!” he cries, laughing. It’s his first stroke of good luck in days. There would be no way for a person casting a genjutsu to know about the squirrel he rescued all those years ago, certainly not about the mark on its back. Although he and the squirrel have crossed paths over the years, he’s never mentioned its distinctive appearance to anyone. 

The squirrel chirps merrily in his ear. Lee has a stroke of genius. 

“Say, you haven’t seen anyone unusual around here recently, have you?” he asks the squirrel. “Maybe someone carrying a scroll?”

The squirrel pauses, as if in thought, then breaks into noisy chatters. It leaps off his shoulder and begins running down the tree trunk, nose pointing straight ahead. 

“Oh, wonderful!” Lee cheers. 

He follows the squirrel down the tree and sets out after it into the depths of the forest with a whoop.

* * *

The location of the scroll, as he finds out, is a snakes’ nest. As they approach the den, nestled in among massive boulders, Lee is overcome by a cloying, musty smell that he associates with warm scales left too long underground. The squirrel draws up short at the edge of the stone formation and looks around in alarm, making a slow and quiet clicking noise. It catches Lee’s eye and then looks meaningfully away from the nest in fear. 

“That’s okay, you’ve done more than enough,” Lee assures it. The squirrel scurries over his feet and vanishes into the dense underbrush with a final chitter of farewell.

Lee approaches the nest cautiously, mindful of his step. He concentrates the barest bit of his chakra reserves into his feet to keep himself steady on the rocks. As he crests a particularly large boulder, he sees it: a writhing ball of massive snakes, all tangled in and among each other. And there, in the center of the mating ball: a white scroll, embossed with the Leaf symbol. 

No sooner has Lee acknowledged his target than a small piece of rock breaks way under his feet, tumbling noisily down into the hissing mass. Lee holds his breath as the entangled serpents all turn to regard him in unison. For a tense moment, they lock eyes, neither making a move.

Then, the snakes lunge at him as one. 

Fighting a single one of the massive snakes would be challenging enough on its own, but Lee is doubly handicapped, restricted to only the use of his feet and up against so many of them at once, all within their mating frenzy. He dodges and dives between the assembled serpents, their fangs shining and snapping, his feet sinking into scaly flesh and shattering bone. He opens the first gate, then the second. Blood and fluid spatters his leg warmers and jumpsuit. Venom sacs burst and shower the rock, dissolving away stone where the poison lands. Lee plunges into the center of the ball of snakes and seizes the scroll in his mouth, carefully evading the worst of the gore as he fights his way out of the nest. He rips open the third and fourth gates, his body burning hot and flares of chakra bubbling up around him. This only seems to enrage the serpents further, but still he presses onwards, kicking and ducking and rolling as far and as fast as he can. 

When he’s finally free of the boulders, he makes a run for it. The remaining snakes pursue him, snapping at his heels. He tears open the fifth gate and blazes towards the edge of the forest. Patches of foliage burst into flame as he passes. With a final press of his weary feet into the ground, he crests the fence that surrounds the forest with a leap, scroll clenched between his teeth. On the other side of the gate he sees the Hokage, the assembled jounin, his teacher, and Tenten, all leaping backwards with a gasp, eyes wide, as the snakes charge at the fence and fall back, electrocuted. 

Lee spits the scroll onto the ground at the Hokage’s feet, battered arms raised in victory. He hears Gai-sensei cheer and promptly passes out for the third time in as many days.

* * *

Lee sits in his bed in the hospital, both hands throbbing but functional, an IV in his arm treating his dehydration. A cheerful sunflower nods in a vase at his bedside. He’s already endured not one, but two full lectures from Sakura about endangering himself. Now he just has to await the final verdict, whether he passed the exam or not. He’s still not sure what day it is - Sakura barreled right over him when he tried to ask - so he isn’t sure if he ran up his time limit while he was under the genjutsu. 

The door to his hospital room creaks open and in wheels Gai-sensei, flanked by Tenten on one side and Kakashi-sensei on the other. Kakashi is dressed in his jounin vest, not his formal Hokage robes, and Lee’s heart plummets into his stomach. 

“Well,” Kakashi says, “that certainly did not go as expected.”

“I’m sorry, sir?” Lee asks.

“You weren’t meant to actually retrieve the scroll,” Kakashi says.

“I am so sorry to have failed- !” Lee blurts out.

Kakashi raises his hand and cuts him off.

“I’m not finished,” he says. “You were _meant_ to have to be rescued. C’mon, ten days under a genjutsu, all your fingers broken, and then poisoned by the one person you thought you could trust? You were supposed to realize the mission was a failure and be prepared to die in service of your village. That would have demonstrated you had the commitment needed to become a jounin.” 

Lee draws in a shaky breath, his lower lip wobbles. All that effort, and still he had gotten it wrong. 

“I apologize for my immense misstep, Hokage-sama,” he says solemnly.

Kakashi rolls his eyes. “No, you idiot. What I’m trying to say is, you exceeded all expectations. Who would have thought you would have the perfect antidote _and_ help from a cuddly animal companion? You passed with flying colors.” He claps Lee firmly on the shoulder. “Congratulations, kid. You’re the Leaf Village’s newest jounin.”

Lee’s mouth opens on a gasp, tongue dry in his mouth.

“Thank you,” he says weakly. 

Gai approaches his bed, seizes one of Lee’s hands gently with both of his and dissolves into noisy tears. 

“My beloved pupil! I am so proud of you, and so sorry for the deception! I hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me for tricking you!” Gai shouts. 

Lee’s eyes well up too - they always do when his teacher starts to cry - and he begins to weep openly.

“Of course, sensei!” he yells back. “I know that your commitment to the village and your obligations as a jounin supercede the sentimentality of our bond! You were only performing your duty!”

Gai bawls, leaning forward and embracing Lee. Lee sobs in kind. 

Tenten approaches the other side of his bed and Lee pulls her into the hug as well. 

“That was incredible, Lee,” she says, a wide grin on her face. “The way you came tearing out of there with all those snakes after you - wow! I knew you could do it!” 

Lee smiles so hard his cheeks hurt, laughing and crying in equal measure. The room is suffused with warm light, and in the reflection of the window next to his bed he sees the people he cares about gathered around him, supporting him: Tenten with her face pressed to his hair, Gai shaking his hand enthusiastically but tenderly, Kakashi holding the handles of Gai’s wheelchair steady. Through the haze of tears saturating his eyes and soaking into his hospital gown, Lee swears he makes out calm grey eyes and a fond smile in the background of the reflection, too. Then he blinks and the image is gone.

* * *

It’s a few weeks before Lee is released to full duty. In the meantime, his white egret flower has grown taller, a bright green bud now standing atop the stem, towering over the low, thin leaves. In just the right light, Lee can see the white petals nestled within the sepal, waiting to burst forth. 

With a spring in his step, Lee saunters down to the mission desk, chest puffed proudly and ready to accept his first mission as a jounin. 

The moment he opens the door, Kiba yells out, “Yoo-hoo! Lover boy!” 

A blush suffuses Lee’s face as he approaches the desk.

“Congrats, man,” Kiba crows. “And perfect timing, too. Have I ever got the mission for you!” 

Kiba hands him a scroll, tightly sealed with dark red wax, and stamped with the symbol of Sunagakure.


	4. Chapter 4

The mission, on its face, seems simple enough. Lee is tasked with escorting Utatane Koharu - a former kunoichi and current council member - to Suna for “administrative talks and ceremonial duties”, whatever that entails. He’ll be accompanying Utatane-sama by himself for the first two days into the desert; a day out from Suna they’ll rendezvous with a jounin from Suna and the solo escort will become a joint mission from there. They’re expected to remain just over one week in the village, long enough for Utatane to complete whatever diplomatic duties she’s tasked with, and then return to Konoha, leaving behind their Suna escort after the first day of travel: a two-week mission, in total. 

When Lee reads over the Jounin fee for the mission he’s gobsmacked. He has to lay the scroll face-down on his kitchen table and catch his breath for a moment. After all, the mission is just a B-class; he certainly wasn’t expecting anything so exorbitant. If this is what a jounin’s typical earnings are, in a few years, he could save up to buy himself a small house. He might even be able to afford the good cuts of beef at the supermarket.

Lee is equal parts nervous and thrilled about the mission. He still doesn’t know what Gaara is thinking, how he’ll react to seeing Lee, if he even still cares or thinks about Lee at all. (Lee tries to push these thoughts from his mind with as much force as he can muster - pessimism will get him nowhere.) Frankly, he has no idea if he’ll see Gaara during his visit. After all, he’s the Kazekage - he’s bound to be very busy, and from what Lee knows about his own village’s leadership, missions outside the village are common and necessary. It could be just his luck that the one week that he’s able to be in Suna coincides with a week that Gaara is away on business. Further dampening his spirits, there has been no response to his enthusiastic letter of thanks, in which Lee had detailed how Gaara’s thoughtful gift saved his life at the last minute and secured his jounin promotion. Lee had even hastily doodled a bluebell - for _gratefulness_ \- in the margins in his own awkward hand. Perhaps that was a mistake; he isn’t much of an artist. 

He’s grown used to the long silences, though. When he’s feeling wistful, he handles the small morning glory crafted out of sand, running his fingers over the finely detailed petals, turning it over and over, watching the light and shadow fall over it. Vivid dreams still overtake him in his sleep: in one, Gaara greets him at the gates of Suna and drops him dramatically into a kiss, supporting him with one arm, in front of the guards and everyone else; in another, he simply dreams that he awakes in the desert to the soft morning light and Gaara gently stroking his hair.

* * *

The evening before he leaves on his mission, Lee stands at his kitchen sink, chopping the last end of a cucumber for salad. Warm orange light reflects off the tiled roofs of the village. On the windowsill sits his orchid, its bud growing full and heavy with petals aching to burst forth. His rucksack is fully packed and standing ready by his door for an early departure tomorrow morning. Steam hisses merrily from his rice cooker while a kettle of water heats on his stove for tea. His apartment is quiet and cozy, the only sound the soft _tick-tick-tick_ of the timer on the grill under the stove. The whitefish cooking there fills his kitchen with a smell that makes him tear up, just a little, a reminder of the pride and independence he felt when he cooked his first successful meal on his own. Lee has never been a particularly skilled cook, his focus more on utility and efficiency than taste or any particular finesse, but he’s glad to be able to use up the last of his perishable food before he leaves, even on something so simple. Tenten will certainly appreciate not having her fridge stuffed with his leftovers. 

He’s just turning to dump the cucumber into a bowl when he hears a _tap, tap_ at his window. He looks up and sees the now familiar hawk, its head tilted in curiosity. He hastily drops his knife in the sink and throws the window wide to welcome it in. The message bag on the hawk’s back this time is noticeably smaller than on its previous visits, the contents flat and tightly secured. Lee holds out a finger to stroke the hawk’s head while he opens the bag. 

Inside is a single folded sheet of paper, no larger than the palm of his hand, and nothing more. The paper is wrinkled from the journey but Lee treasures the moment before he unfolds it all the same. Regardless of what is written on the inside, he knows that this is a sign that Gaara has been thinking of him, too. 

The grill timer buzzes suddenly, breaking the still of the kitchen, and the hawk snaps at Lee’s finger in alarm. Lee hustles to the range to turn his fish, breaking off a small piece, which he holds out to the hawk - a peace offering. 

“I’m sorry I don’t have more to offer you. There’s no more meat in the fridge,” Lee says with an apologetic dip of his head. 

The hawk climbs onto his hand, its talons digging into his knuckles, and seizes the fish from between his fingers in its hooked beak, swallowing it with no change in expression. It clucks impatiently, bobbing its head towards the window. 

“Oh, I guess I shouldn’t keep you. You probably need to go find more food. I’m sure you’re hungry from your long journey,” Lee says.

The hawk doesn’t dignify that with a response, merely strides over to Lee’s windowsill. 

“Please don’t poop there again,” Lee says, a warning tone in his voice. “Kinoko-san from downstairs was very upset that some fell onto her balcony.”

The hawk ruffles its feathers ominously.

“Please,” Lee repeats. “I’m trying to be a good neighbor.”

The hawk settles, its entire body a single sleek line. Without turning its head, it takes off into the fading sunset with a low cry. It leaves behind nothing but the note, still sitting folded on Lee’s table. 

He shuts the window and pulls down the blinds. The kitchen dims, the only source of light the flickering fluorescent bulb above the range, gently humming. The grill timer _tick-tick-ticks_ , counting down the moments until Lee musters up his courage to open the note. 

The shrill whistle of steam bursting from the kettle finally urges Lee into action. On the inside of the paper is a single line of text, characteristically unsigned. The sharp handwriting is a bit larger, sloppier than usual, as if it were jotted down in a hurry. All it says is:

_I look forward to seeing you._

Lee’s heart pounds through his chest and up into his throat. He barely tastes his dinner, reading the note again and again, dragging his finger across the ink on the page as if by touching it enough he could reach through time and space to cup Gaara’s hand while he wrote it. 

He sleeps fitfully, dreams beset by green eyes flashing in the dark, soft hands and softer lips. 

When he wakes in the morning, the orchid on his windowsill has bloomed. The soft fan of elegant white petals, still freshly crinkled from their confinement, greets him like warm smile. The blossom, petals spread aloft like wings, buffets his heart with joy all the way to the village gates.

* * *

Utatane is already waiting for him at the gates. Her expression looks severe, her hair slicked back so tight it smooths the wrinkles on her deeply lined forehead. The morning sun catches the beads on the end of her hairpin, the light piercing Lee like a well-aimed kunai. Her foot taps out an impatient rhythm.

Lee double-checks his watch to make sure he’s not late - he isn’t; in fact, he’s exactly fifteen minutes early, just as he planned. He bows deeply, face nearly touching the hem of Utatane’s kimono. 

“I apologize for any inconvenience,” he says. His voice in his own ears sounds tight with nerves.

“Stand up,” she says. Her voice creaks like an unoiled door hinge. “You know as well as I do that you’re early.”

“Of course,” Lee says, straightening. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, then.”

“And stop apologizing,” she snaps. “I’ll get enough of that from my ungrateful son in a few days.”

“I’m s-” Lee cuts himself off in the face of Utatane’s flashing glare. “Your son? Does he live in Suna, then?”

“Live there?” The sound of Utatane’s sharp laugh ricochets of the gate like joints popping. “He’s the ambassador! Married a Suna kunoichi and barely ever comes back to the village to see his dear old mother. Now I’m lucky if I get to see him once a year.”

Lee’s heart twinges with sympathy at their separation. “That must be very hard,” he says.

“Not for him, it seems. Now my visits get to be his big show of inter-village cooperation, proving that he hasn’t let his loyalties stray too far towards either village. With that wife of his, he has to keep up appearances, you know. Can’t let them think he’s getting soft on Suna.”

“I didn’t even realize marriage between villages was a possibility,” Lee says. His mind is already racing in directions he absolutely _did not_ give it permission to go. 

Utatane laughs again, nothing more than a quick bark of derision. “Before the war it wasn’t. Even with the villages allied, nobody trusted each other enough to exchange shinobi, and the secrets that they carry with them.” She sighs. “But, things are different now. I suppose I should be grateful, at least on behalf of my son’s heart if not for any other reason. The theatrics of it still irritate the piss out of me, though.”

Lee has to stifle a gasp. He’s never heard the elder speak so informally, but it seems peacetime has loosened not only tensions, but tongues too. 

“I see,” he says instead.

“Anyway, enough standing around flapping our gums, we’ve got three long days ahead of us.” Utatane turns to step through the gate. 

Lee’s hand shoots into the air.

“Utatane-sama, excuse me!” he blurts. “I thought I would offer - the journey will be faster if you allow me to carry you on my back! It will also be easier on your body and you will be more rested to attend to your duties!”

Utatane raises one eyebrow. The barest hint of one dark eye peeks out at Lee and stops his heart in his chest.

“Absolutely not,” she says. “The journey is set to take three days, and three days I intend to take. I will travel on my own two feet or not at all. Besides, speeding ahead would just force us to wait longer at the rendezvous point.” She turns and strides out of the gate authoritatively, her steps heavy but sure.

Lee hangs his head in embarrassment - his mouth and his emotions have gotten ahead of his thoughts as usual. In his eagerness to get to Suna, he hadn’t considered the logistics of the mission. Face burning, he scrambles to catch up to Utatane’s retreating back.

* * *

Their first day’s journey is uneventful. Despite her age, Utatane moves swiftly, her path through the forests around Konoha confident from years of travel between the two villages. Lee still itches to barrel ahead at full speed, though, and often catches himself doubling back to meet his charge, who fixes him with a judgmental gaze. Utatane seems to have no deficit of complaints, either: regarding her son (inconsiderate of his mother’s advanced age), the weather conditions (too hot for the springtime), Lee’s appearance (too flashy), and his attitude (too chatty and energetic). Lee does his best to keep up a positive attitude, but by the end of the first day her grouchiness is really starting to wear on him. 

When they retire for the evening, Lee builds the campfire far too high in his enthusiasm, and Utatane fusses at him for being incautious. He apologizes profusely, face to the dirt, while she harries him about stealth and discretion, and the ways that ninja in her day were trained, and how they must just be letting anyone pass the jounin exam these days. Lee’s face burns with shame. 

He half-sleeps in a tree above the campsite, his ears open for any disturbance. Utatane slumbers deeply on a bedroll below, tucked in so deeply that the blanket covers her face entirely, nothing more than the very top of her grey hair visible as she lightly snores. The campfire burns low in the cool spring evening. Lee hasn’t seen or heard another living being since they set out from the village, so he hopes the remainder of the journey will be just as uneventful, despite his earlier foibles. 

Then, he hears a crunching sound in the bushes outside the clearing where they rest. He doesn’t move, not wanting to startle whatever man or beast it may be, merely expands his senses in search of a chakra signature. At first, he finds nothing, and he’s ready to doze back off, comforted that the noise was merely an animal.

But then - just there - maybe 200 meters west of their campsite, he feels the faintest flicker of chakra. Someone is there, and they’re trying to hide it. The chakra concealment is untrained, a bit sloppy, but it would fool most low-level, non-sensor shinobi. This is no lost child or innocent civilian out for a nighttime hunt in the woods - this is someone who means them harm. 

He allows one eye to slide open, still not putting his body into motion just yet. He casts around - the woods are still. Even the crickets, which sound late at night all throughout the forests in Fire Country, have fallen silent. Lee confirms the location of his target, drawing his legs up under him, ensuring there is no one else out there in the dark. It would be foolish to send a single ninja after a jounin and a council member - either this is a small operation or they have been vastly underestimated. Either way, the action plan remains the same. 

In an instant, Lee leaps out of the tree, his body a silent green arc through the darkness. He lands right behind his target, nothing more than a shadow in the black of the woods. His feet crunch into the underbrush and the target spins to face him, but it’s too late. Lee dispatches the enemy before he even fully registers the man’s face, his kunai a single flash in the darkness, one hand over the man’s mouth to muffle his cries. 

The deed done, he turns the dead man over with his foot, cursorily inspecting the body for traps, poisons, exploding tags. He finds nothing but the pool of blood, slick and black like oil in the moonlight. Taking a life is never easy, but it is unfortunately too often necessary - even now in peacetime. 

The following routine is instinctive. Lee checks the body over, looking for identification. The man’s face is unremarkable yet unfamiliar, with close-shorn black hair and plain dark eyes. He’s young, too young to have died like this, his guts spilled on a forest floor. He can’t be more than a couple years older than Lee. He still has pimples at his hairline. His only defining feature is a fresh, patterned scar in his right eyebrow. Lee stores that information away for a later report. 

The man’s hitai-ate is tied inside-out. Lee flips it over, curious that the man would not have wanted his affiliation known. Inscribed on it is the hourglass of Suna, a strike scored through it with a kunai. A rogue ninja, then, and a recent one, too, for his face to not have made it into the Bingo Book. Lee searches the man’s vest and pockets. He undresses the corpse entirely to ensure he hasn’t missed anything, and finds nothing more than a small satchel of senbon. From the smell of them, they’re poisoned. Lee wraps them tightly in spare bandages, tucking them into his own vest for safekeeping. 

That explains _what_ he was planning to do, but _why_...? The body keeps its silence. There are no documents, no indications of the man’s alliances or plans, nothing that explains why a rogue shinobi from Suna would be in the middle of Fire Country, planning to assassinate a Konoha council member. 

The corpse has no more secrets to give him, so Lee digs a shallow hole and buries the body, clothes folded neatly alongside it. The work is thankless but blessedly brief, the soil soft from recent rain. He keeps the hitai-ate, securing it alongside the poisoned needles as proof. 

Lee returns to the campfire, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion. Utatane is sitting next to it, awake, staring into the embers. He settles down across from her and they meet eyes. She gives him a cursory nod. If she notices the blood on his sleeve or the dirt under his nails, she doesn’t mention it.

* * *

They make it to the rendezvous point right on schedule with no further incident. Waiting for them at the border of River Country and Wind Country, at the juncture where lush plantlife gives way to stark desert, is a short woman with distinctive purple paint on each cheek. Her hair is covered by Suna’s traditional headwrap, a short veil protecting her neck from the sun. Her shoulders look broad, although that may just be the thick padding of her jounin vest. A massive roll of fabric rests across her back. 

She introduces herself as Maki, and she and Lee exchange the passphrase for the mission to confirm each other’s identities before she turns to bow at Utatane.

“Utatane-sama,” she says, her voice low and smooth like a stream over worn stones. “Welcome back to Wind Country. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“I appreciate the gracious welcome to your great nation,” Utatane says stiffly, her head inclined just so. Then she looks up with a sparkle in her eye. “Now that we’ve gotten the formalities out of the way, come give me a hug, won’t you?”

Maki obliges her, squeezing the old woman so tightly her feet nearly leave the ground.

“It really is good to see you,” she says, “ceremony or no.”

Utatane meets Lee’s eye over Maki’s shoulder.

“I request Maki on every trip I make to this godforsaken desert. She’s a remarkably skilled kunoichi: sharp as a whip, strong as iron, and fully dedicated both to her village and to lasting peace.”

Maki blushes faintly as she releases Utatane from the embrace.

“Your compliments bring me great joy,” she says formally.

Lee beams and gives her a thumbs up. “I’m thrilled to be partnered with someone that Utatane-sama speaks so highly of!” he says. 

“Yes, well, we’ll see how long the partnership lasts,” Utatane says in a dry tone. “I have yet to meet a Konoha shinobi who suits my work style quite as well at Maki here does.”

“I will endeavor to learn from her example!” Lee exclaims with a salute.

“If you will, Utatane-sama, please, let’s continue to the village,” Maki says.

Utatane nods her assent. Lee notices that neither she nor Maki speak as they make their way through the sparse landscape of Wind Country, seeming to communicate mainly through gestures and facial expressions: the tilt of a chin here, the flick of an index there. 

Lee, too, does his best to hold his tongue, although he can’t help but utter a gasp and murmur an excited “We’re here!” when they reach the sheer cliff face that marks the entrance into Suna. Utatane and Maki fix him with matching critical stares and he shuts his mouth with a _snap_. 

Maki waves their group past the assembled Suna shinobi who flank the high walls surrounding the village. Their expressions are too distant for Lee to make out, but he assumes they’re regarding the group with suspicion; certainly this is not the enthusiastic greeting that welcomes visiting dignitaries to Konoha. There is a faint hissing in the wind that whistles down the cliff face as they pass, sounding like hushed whispers, secrets carried by the breeze. Lee keeps his eyes determinedly forward and does not allow his unease to show. 

When they make it through the pass and into the village proper, Utatane stretches her arms out and cracks her back with a noise that sounds like a dozen twigs snapping at once. 

“Ahh,” Utatane sighs in relief. “Finally. They really ramp up the drama back there, don’t they?” She looks back at Lee and cackles. “Don’t tell me you were really intimidated! It’s all theatrics. If they wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t have seen them.”

Lee coughs into his fist.

Maki steps close to him and says in his ear, “Theatrics that could kill you if you stepped out of line.”

Lee’s eyes get wide and Maki chuckles, a subdued, barely audible cough of breath. 

“Don’t worry about it, you’ll be fine as long as you’re with me,” she says. “Come on, let’s drop Utatane-sama off at her son’s house and then I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”

“Oh, doesn’t Utatane-sama need someone to keep watch overnight?” Lee asks, glancing over at the older woman. 

Maki shakes her head. “No, definitely not,” she says, a wry smile quirking the corner of her stoic lips.

* * *

When they arrive at the ambassador’s house, Lee can see why Utatane doesn’t need an overnight guard. The gates to the house are plastered with seals, which Utatane calmly disarms with a single flick of the wrist. Within the front gate, a massive girdled lizard, its neck wrapped in a Suna hitai-ate, slumbers on a sunny rock. It opens one eye placidly as they pass it on their way to the front door, its tongue flicking out to taste their chakra. Although it appears docile now, Lee can envision how formidable it would appear if it had recognized them as intruders. 

Utatane slides open the door without knocking and waves Lee and Maki inside behind her. As they toe off their shoes in the entryway, a tall, slender woman steps around the doorpost leading into the living area. She, like Maki, is wearing a Suna headscarf, a red-banded hitai-ate wrapped around her narrow waist. Down each cheek are three long, identical stripes in red paint, covering scars that look like claw marks. 

She raises her upper lip in a mild sneer, inclining her head. 

“Utatane-sama,” she says. Her voice is high and raspy, squeaking on the vowels. “You’re right on time.” She cranes her long neck backward. There is a scar that spans the breadth of her windpipe from one side to the other. Lee has seen these types of injuries before, but rarely on a living person. “Darling,” she calls into the house, “your mother has arrived.”

Utatane barely dips her chin at all. “Shirasagi,” she says, her voice tight and intent, “how wonderful to see that you still live and breathe on this earth.”

Before Shirasagi can reply, the ambassador comes careening around the corner, his long legs carrying him past the doorway so that he has to double back to greet them. His gangly arms are overstuffed with scrolls and there’s a quill dangling between his lips. His Konoha headband is off-kilter, pressing down one of his large ears so it juts out from the side of his head. 

“Oh, hello mother!” he cries cheerfully, raising one shoulder to adjust his hitai-ate. A scroll and another quill from somewhere unseen clatter to the floor around him. “My apologies for the disarray! ‘Sagi and I have been very busy, isn’t that right dear?” He presses a quick kiss to the side of his wife’s head and she leans in, a light blush coloring her scarred cheeks, mindless of the ink that splatters across the bridge of her nose like freckles. 

“I see that,” says Utatane drily. “Now, Haruta, won’t you greet your old mother properly? You never know if this will be the last time I see you.”

Haruta throws his arms wide, all the scrolls thundering to the ground in an instant. He grimaces apologetically and Shirasagi looks to the side with a huff. “Sorry,” he says, embracing his mother. He’s so tall that he has to bend nearly in half at the waist to reach her. “I wish you wouldn’t say such things, mother, you know you’ll live forever.”

Utatane flicks his ear as she steps back from the embrace. “No I won’t. Be practical, won’t you. You’ve always been far too much of an idealist. Gallivanting off to other villages, taking up with foreign kunoichi-”

“Suna is our ally!” Haruta crows.

Utatane gives him a sharp look. “And a fine _ally_ they are. Yet you never stopped to think what your poor mother might have to go through on your behalf to ensure your marriage would be approved by both village councils.” One of her fingers has been leased from her long-sleeved robes and she shakes it in his direction. 

“Mother, please, we’ve been over this so many times- !”

Lee glances to his left, hoping that Maki is just as uncomfortable with this exchange as he is. She’s staring dead ahead at a blank spot on the wall, her shoulders set. 

Shirasagi sighs loudly. 

“Utatane-sama, won’t you let me carry your bags to your room? It seems you and my husband have quite a bit of catching up to do,” she says, a biting tone in her voice. 

“Oh- !” Haruta pauses in his bickering. “How rude of me! Yes, let’s take your belongings to your room.” He shoulders his mother’s pack, leaving the scrolls scattered all about the entryway. Utatane strides after Shirasagi as she retreats into the house, her nose in the air. 

Haruta hangs back, waving at Lee and Maki. “Won’t you two stay for tea? I can put the kettle on right now. I’m sure your journey through the desert was most tiring!”

Before Lee can open his mouth, Maki speaks for both of them. 

“No, please, enjoy your time as a family. I need to show Lee to his quarters anyway. We will return in the morning to accompany Utatane-sama to her first meeting.”

Haruta nods enthusiastically. “Of course, of course, I won’t impose. I hope you’ll come a bit early so we can all share breakfast!”

Lee grins. “That sounds wond- !” he starts to say. Maki discreetly pinches the back of his bicep. 

“We’ll try to make it,” she says.

Once she’s shepherded Lee back out into the street, she cranes her neck and whispers close to his ear. “Haruta-san is very well-meaning, but cuisine is not among his natural talents”

Lee flashes her his most brilliant smile. Certainly, the ambassador’s cooking can’t be any more exotically flavored than Gai-sensei’s adventurous dishes. 

“I’m sure it will be delightful!” he says.

Maki narrows her eyes dubiously but chooses not to comment. Instead she simply says, “I’ll show you to your apartment.”

* * *

Maki leaves Lee at the door of his efficiency apartment in the center of the Guest Housing area of the village with his keys and strict instructions not to leave his quarters until she returns. 

“I’ll pick up some groceries for you while you get settled in,” she explains. “Then I’ll walk you up to the Kazekage Tower.”

The door to the apartment is scratched and a bit dingy. It’s on the second floor of a long block of similarly appointed rooms, all set aside for visiting shinobi from the various nations, situated far from the village center and presumably far from anything else of value, too, in the event something should go awry. Across a sand-swept street and visible from the hallway are the lush accommodations reserved for visiting dignitaries: cozy-looking round-roofed cottages with inviting white curtains strung across their doors. Lee assumes they come equipped with amenities that he doubts he’ll find inside his own temporary home.

He fumbles with his keys and steps inside. The apartment is indeed mostly bare, as he anticipated. There’s a tiny kitchenette with a lone hot-plate and a tiny kettle, a single metal chair, and a dusty grey futon rolled in one corner. The apartment has just one window, set high on the wall with the plain beige sash pulled closed against the sun. There’s not a piece of decoration on the walls, and the two doors on either side of the apartment’s cold stone floors lead to a toilet and a narrow storage closet. The showers, Lee has been informed, are communal, and located at the end of the hallway. He is permitted one five-minute shower per day, and rather than a sink, his kitchenette has a basin that he can fill with his allotted daily gallon of water from the taps on the first floor of the complex. 

But there, in the middle of all the dull neutrals and spare impersonality of the room, in the center of the rickety-looking particle board table, sits a tiny potted cactus. The plant is the only spot of color in the drab room, its bright green body round and cheerful, crowned with a small pink flower at a jaunty angle like a hat tipped in greeting. Its appearance makes Lee smile, and he finds his eyes keep drifting to it as he unpacks his belongings and awaits Maki’s return.

* * *

“I hope you found your accommodations suitable,” Maki says. She walks beside Lee down the wide street to the Kazekage Tower, his things all unpacked and the groceries she brought him stored away.

“Absolutely!” Lee says. “The cactus was a very welcoming touch! I actually keep plants - well, _a_ plant - in my apartment in Konoha, so it made me feel right at home.”

Maki gives him a look as if he’d spoken his last sentence backwards. 

“Huh,” she puffs a low chuckle. “I have to say I don’t quite understand your sense of humor.”

“What do you mean?” Lee asks. His eyebrows draw low on his face to meet in the middle.

“Those apartments are always empty. We only put the bare essentials in them. We certainly wouldn’t waste time leaving _plants_ there for visitors who might only stay a couple days.”

Lee’s mouth drops open around an _oh_. He isn’t quite sure how to respond. Their trip through the desert had been long, but he didn’t think it had tired him out enough to cause hallucinations. The cactus was _definitely_ there.

“Anyway,” Maki interrupts his thoughts, “pick up the pace a little bit. You have a report to make.”

“Right!” Lee says, hastening his step. “Wait, how did you know I- ?”

Maki just winks at him, holding open the door to the Kazekage Tower so he can walk inside.

* * *

Maki guides him down a long hallway, lined with portraits of the four former Kazekage, stretching back to the founding of Suna. They pass a large door, inlaid with patterned glass in shades of red and brown, and step through a more modest door just down the hall. Lee doesn’t have time to read the signage on the wall, but he assumes this is the Kazekage’s office. His heart rattles against his ribs like an animal pacing in its cage.

The room is flanked with high windows, little more than thin slits cut into the sandstone walls, very different than the expanse of glass that backlights the Hokage’s desk back in Konoha. Thin shafts of sunlight cut through the office, highlighting lush hanging scrolls and intricately patterned rugs on the walls. A large fan, decorated in a script that Lee can’t decipher, covers most of the east wall. The desk is a large, rough-hewn affair, low to the ground with gold-and-purple threaded cushions arranged in front of it. The surface of the desk gleams like polished marble, a small oil lantern reflecting off it and casting the whole room in an eerie glow. Massive stacks of neatly organized paper and a pile of tilting scrolls initially obscure the desk’s occupant, until Lee steps further into the room. 

Behind the desk sits … Temari. Her head is held high, expression imperious. Her fan leans threateningly against the side of the desk. Lee looks around the room frantically; perhaps this is some kind of joke. But there is no one else in the room besides himself and Maki, flanking his shoulder. 

Temari raises one eyebrow. Her face actually very much resembles a more expressive version of Gaara’s. 

“You were expecting my brother, I see,” she drawls.

Lee bows his head, face overcome with a blush. “I was merely … surprised to see you!” he says, a bit lamely. Maki pushes him down by his shoulder until he kneels on one of the pillows in front of the desk. She, too, kneels behind him. 

“I’m filling in for the Kazekage while he makes a last-minute trip to the Northern Tribes. They’ve recently experienced some unexpected flooding and require his expertise to help them reinforce their breakwalls and protect their crops. I assure you I am more than capable of taking your report,” Temari says, voice low and sarcastic. 

“I didn’t mean- !” Lee blurts. “I mean, I am sure you attend to the duties of the Kazekage with the full passion and fervor of your youth!” Lee punches the air. 

“With the full- …” Temari’s raised eyebrow sinks into a bewildered furrow. “Never mind that. I understand you encountered a rogue ninja from our village on your way here.”

“Yes!” Lee salutes. He gives his report with as much detail as he can recall, recounting the man’s actions, his appearance, and his largely useless search of the body. All the while, Temari jots down notes in a small book on the desk. At the end, he passes over the satchel of poisoned needles and the hitai-ate. 

Temari takes them from him, her face considering. “I see…” she says at length. “The description you gave doesn’t match any deserters that I’m aware of. You said the scarring on the eyebrow appeared fresh?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lee replies with a decisive nod. 

“It may be a newer affiliation, then. I’ll send these senbon to our poisoner’s division, to see if they can track the source of the toxin. ” She closes the book with a decisive _snap_. “I appreciate your candor, Lee. I will pass your report on to your Hokage, so there’s no need to send a separate report.”

Lee bobs his head. “Thank you very much for your assistance!”

Temari holds up a hand to cut him off. “I’m not finished. I hope you understand the very precarious situation this puts our two villages in. Konoha and Suna have one of the strongest alliances among the Five Great Nations, but for one of our ninja, even a defector, to attack one of your council members … it could be seen as a step back in our diplomatic ties. I will make every assurance to the Hokage that Suna in no way endorsed this attack, but in the meantime, I require your silence on this matter. News of the assassination attempt should not leave this room.”

“Understood!” Lee says with another salute. 

“I mean it, Lee. I know you are … enthusiastic, to say the least. I will remind you that discretion is the better part of valor.”

Lee can’t say that last comment didn’t sting, just a bit. He knows he’s a bit more eccentric than the average Suna shinobi, but he hopes that Temari truly doesn’t think that he would betray the confidence of either village like that. He nods firmly. 

Temari turns back to her work. “Dismissed,” she calls, distractedly. 

Maki claps Lee on the shoulder, their signal to leave. She steers him out of the door and down the long hallway. 

“I’ll take you back to your apartment,” she says lowly.

* * *

The first two days in the village pass like sand trickling through an hourglass: slow and predictable. Lee tries not to be too disappointed that he hasn’t seen Gaara yet, but he can feel the sulky aura radiating off himself every time he thinks he catches a glimpse of red hair, only to discover it’s not the Kazekage. Haruta-san’s cooking, as it turns out, is just as atrocious as Maki had warned him, so he prepares himself a bowl of plain rice in the morning and eats that before he meets her at the ambassador’s house, so he can convincingly plead satiation even if he’s too polite to demur the offer of breakfast. He and Maki accompany Utatane to and from the Kazekage Tower each morning, standing silent guard outside various offices while Utatane and the Suna Council members discuss whatever it is that dignitaries discuss. 

The days are long, boring, and most of all, hot. Lee swelters in the desert heat but brushes off any comments about his jumpsuit or leg warmers, despite the questioning stares he receives in return. Several times Lee attempts to engage Maki in conversation while they linger out in the hall but she only fixes him with a stern stare and presses her lips firmly together. Eventually, Lee takes the hint. In the long silences, he has plenty of time to scan the hallways for any sign of the Kazekage’s return to the village, although he finds himself consistently disappointed. He keeps a lookout for signs of danger, too, eyes peeled for any further indication of threat or unrest. That search, too, is fruitless. 

On the second day, Utatane has a meeting in what Lee now knows is Temari’s office. Lee spends the majority of his watch there with his eyes fixed on the glass door with the brass plaque labeled “Kazekage”. After they break for lunch and the council members resume their talks in the afternoon, the door creaks ajar. Lee’s heart soars and he begins to bounce his foot impatiently. _Could it be- ?_

After a tense moment, however, all that emerges is Gaara’s harried-looking assistant, her hair tied up in a kerchief and a massive stack of forms in her arms. Lee’s face falls and he hears Maki snicker into the back of her hand.

* * *

That evening, Utatane requests Lee and Maki accompany her to the ambassador’s home for a tea ceremony with the Suna Council and other assorted advisors. The female head of the household, meaning Shirasagi, is responsible for hosting the ceremony, a matter which Utatane clucks over substantially on their way to the house. Lee does his best to tune her out while nodding and smiling along with whatever she says. 

“- lacking any femininity or really any sense of grace - oh!” Utatane’s tirade is interrupted by the figures standing at the seal-laden gate. Temari is there, fan strapped tightly to her back, her eyes steely when they meet Lee’s. Kankuro, too, is standing next to his sister, his face paint a bit smudged and the ankles of his jumpsuit dusty; he must have just returned from traveling. 

“Utatane-sama,” Temari inclines her head respectfully. “Thank you for graciously inviting us to your son’s home.”

“Your presence is an honor unto itself, my lady,” Utatane bows back. “It’s only a shame your honored brother was indisposed.”

“He sends his regards,” Kankuro says in his gruff voice. 

Lee has to restrain himself from issuing a boisterous greeting, instead he raises his hand and meekly waves, just a fan of his fingers. Kankuro’s eyes crinkle in response. Lee’s heart thunders nervously in his chest. _Indisposed?_ He hopes it means nothing dangerous has happened. Not that Gaara couldn’t more than defend himself, it’s just that Lee worries. 

Utatane leads the group into the house, past the sleepy gaze of Shirasagi’s lizard, to where a small assemblage of dignitaries has already gathered in the ambassador’s plush parlor. Shirasagi sits behind a low table, arrayed with a metal teapot over a brazier and a dozen tiny glass cups all arranged in neat rows. The room smells strongly of mint, a scent which Lee traces to a woven basket heaped high with green herbs to the right of the table. The room is strewn with ornate pillows in lush reds and oranges, dark curtains hanging low over the high windows and casting the room in an otherworldly crimson glow. Shirasagi hardly looks like the same woman Lee met two days ago, her turban removed and long braids of dark hair piled elaborately atop her head, her lithe body swathed in dark red robes. 

Lee and Maki take their places at the back of the room, while Temari, Kankuro, and Utatane make themselves comfortable right in front of the table, in the seats of highest honor. 

Further dignitaries filter into the room, some that Lee recognizes from their earlier meetings and others that he does not. The room fills with the low murmurs of their gathered voices, a gentle rumbling that soothes Lee’s spirit. Somewhere outside in the street, a gentle tune on plucked strings begins to play, filtering through the windows with the heat of the sun. 

Once everyone has assumed their seats, Shirasagi raises her raspy voice. 

“We welcome you all to our home. In honor of your distinguished presence, please allow me to prepare for you a gift of tea, to wet your mouths so that we may all speak more easily. Since we have guests from outside our village,” here, her eye catches Lee’s with a twinkle, “allow me to say this as well. In Suna, we have a saying about our tea: The first glass is as soft as life, the second as strong as love, and the third as bitter as death.” 

Lee’s breath catches in his throat. With the ringing of a bell, the ceremony begins. 

Shirasagi moves with the efficiency of a well-thrown blade, each movement fluid and refined. Lee can’t imagine what would make Utatane regard her as anything other than graceful. The ambassador, draped in green robes at her left hand, deftly hands her each tool as she extends her hand to ask for it, their joint motions as coordinated as a partnered dance. With a loud _crack_ she shears away large chunks of sugar from a massive cane, dropping them into the bubbling pot. She snaps the stems of the mint, crushing them between her hands and forcing them into the open mouth of the boiling kettle. She pours the water again and again, between cups and teapots and back into the kettle in a pattern Lee can’t quite trace, her hand high above her head and the fall of water precisely controlled as she raises and lowers the teapots. 

The room slowly fills with steam; the scent of the tea, gunpowder bitter and saccharine sweet, saturates everything. Lee feels his eyes growing low and heavy, tired from the long day and lulled by the warmth and placidity of the scene. Finally, the tea is poured into glass cups, and passed around the room. 

Lee’s first sip is interrupted by the creak of a door and a clamor of whispers. He spins to see who has entered the room. Standing at the door behind him, his hair in a bit of disarray and his robes looking rather wrinkled and careworn, stands Gaara, his Kazekage hat in his hands. Suddenly, Lee finds himself wide awake.

“I apologize for my lateness,” Gaara says, his voice low. Lee’s heart pounds so loudly in his chest that he’s terrified that the assembled ninja can hear it. 

“Kazekage-sama, how wonderful that you could make it,” Utatane says from the front of the room. “Come, we’ll make space for you up here.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself, it seems there’s a spare cushion right here,” Gaara says. He takes his seat on the empty cushion to Lee’s right. Their knees are almost touching. Lee can’t stop himself from staring. The tiniest hint of a smile breaks over Gaara’s face, like a robin’s egg cracking underfoot. 

“I’m sorry for the interruption. Please, proceed,” Gaara says with a brief gesture. Lee watches the bones shift in Gaara’s hand, the fine structure of his wrist revealed from his coat’s sleeve. Lee hopes his face isn’t visibly red. 

Although they don’t get the chance to speak at all, the proximity is enough. Gaara’s _here_. Despite all the confusion and turmoil and sleepless nights and restless dreams - he’s really, truly here, no longer paper and ink but flesh and blood, the warmth of his leg radiating into Lee’s. Lee has to bite his lip to keep from beaming at the sound of Gaara blowing gently across his tea, his lips pursed like a kiss. They sit, close like that - Gaara with his skin soft and uncovered, smelling of sweat and sand - for so long that Lee’s calves go numb. The pins and needles racing down his knees are worth every second. 

Lee downs his second cup of tea, just as strong and as sweet as promised. He forgoes a third cup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout-out as always to the GaaLee Discord for making me more productive with my writing than I've been in months! Y'all are the best.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains fairly major spoilers for Gaara Hiden, but you shouldn't need to have read it to follow along.

Lee spends the morning practically vibrating with excitement. He keeps his eyes pinned on the office doors, inside which Utatane and the Suna Council members are sequestered in talks with the Kazekage. He clenches and unclenches his fists, tenses and relaxes every muscle in his legs, tries to time himself to see how long he can go between blinks, just in case he should happen to catch a split-second glimpse behind the stained glass door.

He must be doing a poor job hiding his excitement, because Maki keeps giving him odd looks out of the corner of her eye. The waiting is interminable, and as the sun rises in the sky and the building heats up through the thick clay walls, even Lee’s enthusiasm starts to flag. 

At long last, the glass door opens, and Lee stands to full attention.

Out stalks Utatane, followed by the three Suna Council members, each one more hunched and greying than the last. Lee cranes his neck, hoping to peek through the aperture and into the office behind, but the door creaks shut and no one further emerges from the office. 

“Come,” Utatane says with a sharp wave of her hand. “Let’s retire.” 

Lee and Maki fall into step behind her. 

The workday in Suna is different from what Lee is used to in Konoha, and adapting has been something of a challenge for Lee. The day starts before daybreak, when the sun is not yet risen and the day not yet too hot. This suits Lee just fine, early riser that he is. At midday, when the sun is at its peak, everyone shelters away for a long lunch in cool, shaded areas, far away from the external walls of the buildings. No work is completed at all until the sun has become less punishing. Then the workday resumes, ending late in the evening, when the sun has gone down and the desert has started to cool. 

It’s the long midday break that Lee struggles with the most. He can’t abide idleness, certainly not in the middle of the day when his energy is highest. Today it’s more of a challenge than usual to sit still and keep his composure while they drink cool tea in a dark interior room, Maki and Utatane chatting idly. He tries to keep himself from fidgeting but unspent adrenaline is still flooding his body; he can’t stop himself from drumming his fingers on the low table they’re clustered around, running his tongue over his teeth and cracking the joints in his toes. 

Utatane heaves a belabored sigh. She eyes Lee judgmentally.

“You’re going to drive me insane if you keep that up,” she says.

“I’m so sorry!” Lee cries, tucking his hands beneath his knees to keep them still.

“Go burn off some steam, why don’t you?” She gestures dismissively at the door.

“But I need to stand guard!” Lee protests. 

“Maki will take care of it,” Utatane says, leaning back against the wall. “I’m going to take a nap.”

“But- !” Lee stammers. 

“I won’t be able to sleep if you’re in here; your chakra is completely out of control.”

Lee opens his mouth to apologize but Utatane has already closed her eyes. 

“Scram,” she says with finality, one dark eye flicking open to make sure he actually leaves.

He tries to close the door gently behind him.

* * *

Lee isn’t sure where the training fields proper are, so instead he returns to the guest quarters. In the yard between the two wings of the building, a small training area has been arranged for visiting shinobi. There isn’t much to speak of - a few targets for kunai practice, a single worn wooden post, a small sandy lot - but it suffices for Lee’s purposes.

Concerned that he would damage the equipment if he attacked any of it with sufficient force, Lee instead decides to focus on his forms. He starts with a vigorous set of kick-punches, then winds up into a series of press-ups, hands digging into the warmth and grit of the earth.

The sun bears down on him, unforgiving, and he can feel his face getting red, his hair becoming limp and soggy with sweat. Rather than give in and retire, he rolls down the top of his jumpsuit and ties the arms of it around his waist. When the sweat starts rolling down his legs, too, he takes off his leg warmers and neatly folds them by the lone training post, though he leaves his weights on. 

He segues into a rendition of several of his more complicated kata, concentrating on moving slowly and perfecting his position and accuracy, rather than on speed or power. He’s slightly concerned about causing a dust storm if he were to move too fast. 

He’s just finishing a spin kick when a whirl of sand materializes in front of him. Lee experiences a brief moment of panic - _I can’t have been going fast enough to cause that, right?_ \- before the wind clears and Gaara steps forward. 

Before he can even speak, Lee impulsively sweeps him up into a tight embrace, crushing Gaara’s face into his pectorals, mindless of the sweat coating his torso. In the next instant, he realizes his error and releases Gaara.

“Gaara! I’m very sorry, I must smell terrible!” Lee cries, leaping back from him.

“It’s fine,” Gaara says, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. He stares at Lee’s scarred chest and stomach for a long moment in silence. The barest hint of his tongue peeks out to lick a drop of sweat away from the corner of his mouth. 

A blush cascades down Lee’s face from his hairline. 

“Um, what are you doing here?” Lee asks, when it seems Gaara is not going to say anything further.

Gaara’s eyes dart up to meet Lee’s, a startled expression on his face, as if he were just pulled from deep thought. 

“Not that I’m not delighted to see you!” Lee shouts, waving his hands. “I’m just surprised!”

The corner of Gaara’s upper lip twitches in mirth.

“I know,” he says. “I came because I received a report that there was a foreign ninja in leg warmers kicking things in the yard of the guest quarters and yelling. They were going to send the ANBU, but I had a suspicion it might be you.”

_ANBU?_ Lee’s face pales but he shakes himself into composure.

“I haven’t broken anything, though,” he says, gesturing to the intact courtyard. “I was trying my best to be careful.”

“I see that,” Gaara says, eyes twinkling. “I appreciate your decorum. The yelling probably just frightened someone. We’re accustomed to quiet afternoons here.”

“Yelling? But I wasn’t … _oh!_ ” Lee snaps his fingers. “They must have meant my kiai. I wasn’t trying to be loud with those, either.”

“Sometimes you don’t know your own volume,” Gaara says. His tone is gentle, voice wrapping around Lee like a familiar animal. 

“I guess that’s true- “ Lee raises one hand to cup the back of his neck. Before he can make contact, his arm is grabbed by a tendril of sand and pulled forward.

“You’re bleeding,” Gaara says. He holds Lee’s hand palm-up, eyes slightly wide in alarm.

Lee tears his eyes away from Gaara’s face to look at his own bandaged hand. Indeed, there are a few spots of blood leaking through his bandages.

“Please don’t worry about that!” Lee says. He attempts to pull his hand back, but without much effort, and Gaara holds him firm. “I’ll be fine, the dirt here is just a lot hotter and more coarse than what I’m used to in Konoha. It happens sometimes; that’s why I wear bandages after all.”

Gaara narrows his eyes. “I would prefer if you didn’t sustain any injuries while you’re under my care. Come with me.”

Gaara turns around, his long coat snapping around his ankles, and begins to stride off. Lee shrugs his jumpsuit back onto his shoulders, grabs his leg warmers, and jogs to catch up to him.

“Where are we going?” Lee asks.

“My office.”

“Oh! Then I should walk on my hands. That would be excellent training.” Lee goes to drop into a handstand.

“Please don’t,” Gaara says sharply. “You’ll aggravate your injury. I want to see your face, not talk to your feet.” 

Lee straightens back up, falling into step next to Gaara. For such a short man, he walks quickly, his gait imperious through the city streets. Once, in the crowd of the marketplace, their hands accidentally brush, and Lee’s heart thrums, a hopeful butterfly in his chest. But just as soon as the contact is made, the crush of bodies thins out and their hands separate.

* * *

Gaara holds open the stained-glass door for Lee to enter. Lee has never seen inside Gaara’s office properly before, but his first look inside is utterly different from anything he could have imagined. 

The light catches on the flecks of red and brown inlaid in the door, scattering a pattern of dappled light across the office floor. The office itself is cluttered, cozy, homey, lived-in. The air within is hot and moist, smelling like sand and loam. Every surface is covered, not with paperwork as Lee would have expected in a Kage’s office, but with plants. Tiny succulents in decorative pots dot every surface: small, round, thorny things sprouting pink and yellow flowers; spiraling fractals of thick green and purple leaves; densely clustered white bulbs that resemble stones. There are larger plants, too: massive pots, half the height of a man, supporting piles of stones and woody stems, long spines towering to the ceiling. In every high round window dangles a wicker basket, trailing tendrils covered in green pearls. 

Lined up along the back of Gaara’s wide stone desk are dozens of framed photographs: Gaara embraced by his siblings, Gaara’s teacher Baki (wrinkled, beaming with a fresh-faced group of genin), a younger Gaara in his ceremonial robes surrounded by a class of graduating Academy students (half of whom look older than him), Naruto and Gaara sharing a bowl of ramen, Gaara and Shira performing identical taijutsu kata, Matsuri with her johyo held high, pictures of Gaara with shinobi and civilians Lee has never seen before and doesn’t recognize, people of all shapes and sizes and ages and nations. Each frame is pristine and carefully dusted. And in one corner, too, a large wooden frame with each of the photographs Lee has sent to Gaara: pictures of meals he’s eaten and places he’s visited and things he just thought Gaara would want to see. In the center of the frame is a photograph of Lee, smiling with the sunset behind him. Lee remembers the moment that Tenten took it - just a pause between two long missions, when he hadn’t had a chance to write much at all. There’s a smear of dirt on his cheek and a cut under his eye but he’s grinning his heart out. In the corner of the glass is a smudged thumbprint. 

And most startling of all, lined up all along the desks and shelves, cluttering up the place - the trinkets that Lee sent Gaara. The rough-hewn sandstone mug at the front of the desk, filled with honey candies for visitors to take. The winking green jeweled eye of the snake figurine, peeking out from below the glossy leaves of a succulent. Seeds and shells and odd looking stones, all haphazardly displayed across the office. In among these are more items, things Lee doesn’t recognize - boxes of tea in brands that Gaara doesn’t drink, decorative weapons that he has no use for, stone and glass ornaments dangling from the pots and baskets - no doubt gifted to Gaara by his family and friends. Just standing for a moment in the doorway of the office, Lee feels suffused with all the care Gaara has surrounded himself with, bonds criss-crossing the office as strong and invisible as cobwebs. When Gaara sits at his desk, he must feel so _loved_. Lee has to surreptitiously wipe a tear from the corner of his eye.

Gaara catches Lee’s stare as he uses his sand to pull out the plush, wheeled chair behind the desk.

“I spend more time here than I do at home,” he explains, gesturing for Lee to sit in it. 

“It’s beautiful,” Lee says, voice cracking with awe. Then he notices _where_ it is, exactly, that Gaara’s trying to have him sit. “Gaara, I can’t sit in your chair! That’s not appropriate!”

“Don’t be silly,” Gaara says, stepping forward until Lee half-falls into the seat, cornered behind the desk. A tiered shelf stacked with heavily scented herbs blocks his escape from the other side.

Apparently satisfied that Lee will stay seated, Gaara treads over to one of the larger succulents and snaps off a spiny, lance-shaped leaf from one of the rosettes within. Clear liquid oozes from the broken stem. Gaara holds it in his mouth while he carefully unwraps Lee’s bandaged hand. The skin has cracked open a bit along his heart line, a rivet of pink flesh exposed in the dry desert air, but the bandages have thankfully absorbed most of the blood. 

“What is that?” Lee asks, when Gaara squeezes a bit of the gel into his palm and gently massages it in. 

“Aloe ferox,” Gaara says simply. 

The gel stings a bit and Lee bites a hiss between his teeth. “I don’t have a sunburn, though,” he objects, although he doesn’t pull his hand away.

“No,” says Gaara, long fingers still rubbing over Lee’s wounded palm. “You’re thinking of aloe vera. This type of aloe is an antiseptic. It also has wound healing properties.” Gaara steps a bit closer, edging between Lee’s knees and into his space. 

“Oh,” Lee breathes. Gaara’s body is perilously close to his. The gel has all been absorbed into his palm but Gaara’s hands linger, cradling Lee’s between their bodies. Gaara’s gaze plunges into Lee’s heart and stops it beating in his chest. Gaara takes another half-step forward, his knees almost touching the seat of the chair. Lee tilts his chin up, his eyes on Gaara’s softly parted lips. From this close, he can feel the breath that gusts between them. It would be so easy to reach up, to just crane his neck that last bit skyward and seize what he’s been waiting for. 

But something stops him, holds him as firmly as a palm against his chest. The long silences, months in between letters - Lee feels dangerously uncertain. He knows how he feels, knows it as surely as he knows the Shinobi code, but he doesn’t know if Gaara truly feels the same. They couldn’t be more estranged from the still tranquility of their nights together in Konoha, when the long hours in Lee’s kitchen stretched around them like moonlight. And right now, in the middle of the day, in the middle of Gaara’s office, with the end of the lunch hour breathing down the backs of their necks, it doesn’t seem like the right time. The conversation could be lengthy; it isn’t worth rushing - and for what? A single, stolen afternoon kiss? If Lee gets what he wants, then he’ll have days, weeks, months, hopefully _years_ worth of kisses to come. 

Lee pulls back, but Gaara is still _so close_ , his fingers idly trailing through Lee’s bandages as he rewraps his hand with care. It’s impossible to separate himself entirely. Instead he casts his eyes around the office, hoping to land on a topic of conversation. For a moment he struggles, senses overwhelmed by proximity and visually overstimulated between the lush green crushing around him and the perfect angle of a shadow on Gaara’s collarbone, but then he sees something that catches his eye.

On a low bookshelf, three framed photographs sit side-by-side. Unlike the messy array of pictures behind the desk, mostly candids and casual snapshots, the figures in the three white frames are posed, shoulders square, as in funeral portraits. The largest of the three is a photograph of a woman with shorn brown hair, neck wrapped in a high scarf. Her eyes look kind and the line of her jaw is vaguely familiar - like someone Lee has seen before, but never formally met. In the frame beside her is a photograph of a young man with the same light hair - they could be twins, honestly - but his photograph is a bit smaller, a bit careworn, yellowed at the edges and wrinkled, as if it had once been crumpled but later smoothed out. After a moment of careful consideration, Lee realizes the third frame isn’t white at all, but a very pale eggshell color. The photograph within it is newer, the young woman’s black hair cut in a more modern style, her face pale and thin. She’s exceptionally beautiful, with a smile like a half moon.

Lee says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“Who are they?” he asks, pointing. 

Gaara takes a short, startled step back. He glances over his shoulder, then points to each photograph in turn.

“That’s my mother,” he says, hand coming up instinctively to touch the gourd at his hip. “That’s…” A long, conflicted pause hangs in the air. “... my uncle.” 

For a brief moment, Lee wonders - if this is the shelf where Gaara keeps photographs of his deceased family, why is there no picture of his father? Seconds later, he’s glad he didn’t give voice to that question. Gaara’s father has his place out in the hall; he doesn’t deserve to be in here, among all the people whom Gaara cares about, and who care about him. 

“And that,” Gaara says, pointing to the third photograph, “is Hakuto. My betrothed.”

Lee’s heart plummets to his feet, rots and then bursts like a fruit left too long on the vine. This whole time, Gaara has been _engaged_ , and he’s been at home, writing letters like some lovesick idiot. No wonder he didn’t write back. _How long has this been going on? And why didn’t Gaara say anything?_ Lee’s head spins circles around his withering heart. 

“She’s beautiful,” Lee chokes out around the lump in his throat. “You must be very happy.” He forces a wobbly grin onto his face. He should be happy that Gaara has found love, even if it’s not with him. 

Gaara’s eyes narrow slightly. “She is … deceased. Officially speaking.”

Lee’s heart, previously at his feet, plummets through the floorboards and begins burrowing its way into the earth. Of course - the formal photograph, the off-white frame, the position next to Gaara’s late relatives. Lee could not have put his foot into his mouth any further. How could he have messed up this badly? Not only not knowing that Gaara had a fiancée, but that she had _died_. How could he not have known? (How _could_ he have known, without Gaara telling him?)

“I’m so sorry,” Lee gasps. “That must have been very difficult.”

Gaara almost scoffs. “Lee,” he says seriously, “I hardly knew her. Our sham engagement was little more than a political contrivance for certain members of the authoritarian elite to consolidate power. It is to both of our advantage that, for record-keeping purposes, she is no longer among the living.”

Lee understood roughly half the words that came out of Gaara’s mouth just now, but he does understand one thing.

“Wait,” he says, mouth ajar, “what do you mean by ‘officially deceased’?”

A corner of Gaara’s mouth ticks up. 

“It’s … complicated,” he says. “But you don’t need to worry about it. The important thing is that, as far as the council is concerned, she is no longer a viable candidate for my marriage. And that I’ve been given their ‘permission’” - here he makes derisive air quotes - “to remain a bachelor for as long as my mourning period should last, which is to say, as long as it suits me.”

Lee’s heart, bruised but not broken, struggles back into his chest and resumes a faltering, optimistic beat. He takes a deep breath and tries to stabilize himself from the surge of adrenaline that just rocketed through his whole system. 

Just then, there’s a rapping at Gaara’s office window. Lee glances up as Gaara uses a small wave of sand to part the glass and admit a familiar hawk.

“Oh, this may be a letter from her now,” Gaara says. He unfastens the message bag from the hawk’s back with graceful ease and extracts a small scroll. 

“What?” Lee breathes. 

Gaara either didn’t hear him or chooses to ignore him. The hawk hops over to Lee and climbs onto the back of his bare hand. Its talons dig in slightly, but don’t puncture his skin. Lee gently strokes the hawk’s head.

“Ah, yes, you’ve met Takamaru,” Gaara says. Without raising his eyes from the scroll he’s scanning, he roots around in a jar on his desk and holds out something dry and sinewy for Lee to take. “He likes you. Give him this, and he’ll like you even better.”

Lee very much doubts that Takamaru likes him, if the bird’s skeptical gaze is anything to go by, but still he holds out the treat in his other hand. The bird takes it from him with a regal snap of its beak. Its behavior seems much improved from its last display in Lee’s kitchen, there’s no nipping, no chirruping, and certainly no rooting around for additional snacks. 

While the bird is swallowing the last of the treat, the office door swings open. Lee turns his head and sees Gaara’s assistant enter, her willowy figure straining under a stack of papers almost as tall as she is. 

She deposits the pile on the desk with a _thud_ , the loud noise startling Takamaru. He takes wing and flutters briefly around the office before settling on her shoulder. The woman, paying the hawk no mind, peers over the amassed forms through her thick glasses and catches Lee in a milky-eyed stare.

“Oh, Lee-san!” she says with warm familiarity. Her accent is slightly dark, swallowing around the vowels, more liquid than that of a Suna native. “How interesting to see you here.”

“I’m sorry,” Lee replies. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“We haven’t, formally,” the woman says, leaning over and extending a hand to shake. “My name’s Shijima.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Lee says, awkwardly, taking her dainty hand in his clumsy and bandaged one. She squeezes his fingers hard and the bones of his hand creak. She grins at him with a Cheshire smile like a crescent moon. He doesn’t bother giving his name, since it’s obvious she already knows it.

The hawk on her shoulder crows and Shijima titters. 

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she says, conspiratorially. 

“You have?” Lee is a bit taken aback. “Like what?”

Shijima just laughs again, then turns her attention to Gaara, who has finally finished reading his missive and is rolling up the scroll. 

“How’s my little sister doing?” she asks. Her tone is surprisingly informal for someone speaking to the village leader. Lee supposes that if she didn’t grow up in Suna, she might not have the same fear and deference towards Gaara as the rest of the villagers, having been spared the worst of his history. Perhaps that’s why Gaara selected her as his assistant. “You know, it seems she writes you more often than she does me, these days.”

Gaara casts his eyes to the side, a wrinkle of amusement across the bridge of his nose.

“She is well,” he says. “She and her husband send their regards.”

It’s then that Lee cottons on to the resemblance between Shijima and the woman in the photograph - they have the same dark hair, the same thin bridge to their nose, the same cant to their eyebrows. The two of them must be sisters. The method of unmonitored correspondence, the not-quite-white shade of the photo’s frame (Gaara has always been a bit superstitious, Lee recalls), Shijima’s casual joking, Gaara’s brusque dismissal, a woman ‘officially deceased’ but still writing letters - Lee’s mind churns the facts over for a few moments, mouth agape, before he lets out a loud “Ohhh!” 

Gaara, Shijima, and Takamaru all turn to look at him as one. 

“I’m sorry,” Lee blurts. “I’ll keep it confidential, of course.” 

Gaara raises an eyebrow, but his gaze is soft, fond. “Of course you will,” he says. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I had any doubt.” 

“If the Kazekage trusts you, I trust you too,” Shijima chimes. 

Takamaru squawks along as she turns to exit the office.

“Oh, hoping to hitch a ride, are you?” she chides the bird on her shoulder. “You’re lucky I have business in the aviary, you lazy creature.” 

The door shuts behind her, and Lee and Gaara are left alone once again. Lee meets Gaara’s eye. He feels half-dizzy with information overload. His heart has resumed a slow and steady pounding, hopeful and secure. He opens his mouth to speak, but Gaara’s eye catches the light in the window and he holds up a hand to cut Lee off.

“It’s getting late. I should return you to your charge before you’re missed.”

Lee wants to protest, ask for just a few more moments alone in the quiet of Gaara’s office, but his obligations do take precedence. After all, he is in Suna for a mission, not for his own personal romantic pursuits. 

Gaara drops him off at the entrance of the interior room where Maki and Utatane are resting, one hand light on the small of Lee’s back. He cranes his neck up to whisper in Lee’s ear, “Tomorrow night?” 

The expression that crosses Utatane’s face in response to seeing Lee nodding and waving enthusiastically to the Kazekage is almost worth the afternoon’s emotional whiplash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I normally try to hew fairly close to canon, but I did play it fast and loose with the canon timeline here, so I hope that didn't throw you. The events are still basically the same, I just pushed the timing forward a bit for my own convenience (I didn't want my sweet boys to have to wait until after Shikamaru and Temari got married to pursue their own romance ;) ).


	6. Chapter 6

That night, Lee sleeps poorly, a thin pillow pressed over his face to calm his blushing cheeks. 

He dreams of pale green eyes reflecting in the dark, descending under the coarse blanket that covers his futon. He dreams of long-fingered hands grasping at his waist, his hips, pinning him down at his upper arms, a lean torso pressed to his, his own fingers ensnared in thick red hair - things that he’s never felt and that shame him to imagine. 

He wakes gasping. He turns over the soiled sheet (that he doesn’t even have the water allowance to wash properly) before he falls back into another fitful doze. 

He dreams that he’s lost between trailing vines swathed in every color of camellia, following the flicking tail of a long red coat. Every time he parts the greenery, reaching his hands out to seize the one he’s chasing, the apparition vanishes and his hands close around nothing more than sand, dripping through his fingers like an hourglass. White and red and yellow petals rain down around him and he breathes them in, sucking flowers into his lungs. He dreams his bandages come alive, wrap around him like snakes, tying his arms together. Gaara’s concerned face looms before him, frantic fingers picking at the bandages, until the serpents rise up and consume him too. 

Lee’s face burns when he rouses into a state of half-wakefulness. Though he flips his pillow, it seems it has no cool side anymore. 

In the pre-dawn light he dreams a fever - red-hot heat that consumes him, licking at his ankles and crawling up his legs, the glimpse of a pink tongue wicking away sweat. Its febrile warmth recedes into a cool ocean that retreats from him like an ebbing tide. On the far shore he sees Gaara, embracing a stone obelisk studded with funeral photographs. His hair is blown back by an unseen wind, a curse mark visible on his forehead. With the raise of one elegant hand, Gaara builds a chrysalis out of sand around himself and steps inside it, the aperture closing before he subsides beneath the waves. Lee reaches out with numb hands that move in the opposite direction from where he commands them, looks down to discover his weights have transformed into roots that anchor him to the ground. A hawk’s beak pierces him through the heart. 

Lee wakes up a half-hour early, his eyes gritty and clothes soaked through with sweat. He resolves to stay awake instead, not trusting himself to fall back asleep. He keeps himself busy with push-ups until the faint grey light of dawn tells him it’s time to leave for the ambassador’s house.

* * *

The following day is an exquisite torture. Lee catches a glimpse of Gaara stalking down the hallway, his white robes swishing around his feet, and has to bite his tongue not to call out to him. He sees Gaara in a lithe shadow pacing back and forth behind the stained glass doors of his office and his fingers itch to rap at the door. He hears the soft rumble of Gaara’s voice in conversation and his heart flutters in his chest. He sighs, perhaps excessively, and Maki rolls her eyes. 

At lunch, Gaara and Temari accompany Utatane and the Suna Council members to a cool room in the basement of the Kazekage Tower to continue a heated discussion. Lee and Maki sit at a table in the corner of the room, the dampness of the earth around them sinking through their clothes and raising goosebumps on Lee’s arms. Utatane and the Council debate in creaking voices, Temari interjecting in her sharp tone here and there. Shijima keeps diligent notes in shorthand, her pen flying across the thin paper of a scroll, seated at the Kazekage’s left hand. 

Lee resolutely closes his ears to the specifics of the conversation, which he is not meant to be privy to, but he finds his eyes keep drifting to Gaara. His face is a blank, emotionless mask, his hands gently resting on the edge of the pointed hat that sits before him on the table. Lee studies the sweep of his hair, pushed back to expose the delicate shell of one ear. He’s captivated by the way the light falls on the thin column of Gaara’s neck, casting the hollow of his throat into shadow. Gaara takes a long sip of cold barley tea, the back of his hand coming up to wipe away the dampness of his lips, and Lee’s tongue turns dry in his mouth. He looks up to find Gaara staring directly at him, his gaze piercing through the dim light of the room. Lee’s heart stops in his chest, struck through by that arrow. The back of his neck heats, every hair on his arms standing straight. Gaara doesn’t move his mouth, doesn’t make any gesture at all, but Lee can hear the words in his head as clearly as if they were spoken into his ear: _Tonight_. 

Maki coughs, discreetly, into her fist, and Lee drops his gaze back to the table. The electric current between them fizzles and breaks. 

To Gaara’s left, Shijima licks the nib of her pen and continues to scrawl.

* * *

That evening, Lee and Maki follow Utatane through the dimming streets to the ambassador’s house. The last dregs of the sun cast a haze of orange over everything, making the world soft-edged and romantic. 

“Lee-san, are you joining us for supper?” Maki asks in her low voice. 

“I’m sorry?” Lee asks, pulled from his idle consideration of the evening’s activities.

“My son is cooking tonight,” Utatane says sharply, “and Maki has agreed to come along. You must have had your head in the clouds when we were discussing it.”

Lee cups the back of his neck. “I apologize, I won’t be able to make it. I have … other plans.” He averts his eyes from Utatane’s curious gaze.

Maki chuckles, patting her stomach. “And here I thought you enjoyed the ambassador’s food.”

Lee bites his lip to avoid outright grimacing. It seems there are multiple benefits to being unavailable this evening. 

At the gate to the ambassador’s house, Utatane dismisses the seals and turns to head inside.

“I hope you enjoy your time with whoever it is that has you so nervous,” she calls over her shoulder. “And try not to tire yourself out, I need you sharp for the morning.”

Lee blushes down to his toes.

Maki hangs back. She lays a hand on Lee’s shoulder and regards him with a serious expression.

“Lee-san,” she says, “I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Lee’s face falls. _What gave them away?_

“I don’t know what you mean,” he chokes out. 

Maki sighs. “You’re too obvious,” she says, warningly.

“Please-” Lee stammers, unsure how to finish his sentence. “Don’t tell Utatane.”

“I likely won’t need to. You can’t seem to keep your emotions off your face.”

“I’m so sorry, I will strive to do better and be more focused.” Lee bows his head in apology.

Maki raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Shijima-san is a very beautiful woman and a skilled warrior,” she says at length.

Lee is thrown by the sudden change in topic. “Certainly!”  


“The relationship between her clan and our village is … strained, shall we say.” Maki fidgets with the edge of one long sleeve, the gesture jarring on her normally still form. “Did you know she’s descended from royalty?”

“Oh?” Lee says politely. He cannot imagine why Maki would be sharing this information with him. 

Maki ducks her head closer to his, her voice dipping to a whisper. “What I’m saying is, I can’t imagine that a courtship between her and someone from a foreign village would go over easily.”

Lee’s breath dies in his throat. 

“Oh,” he breathes, then catches himself. He begins to wave his hands frantically. “I’m not- ! Please don’t worry! I wouldn’t- !”

Maki just claps him on the shoulder again, harder this time. It stings, even through the thick canvas of his vest. 

“Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

Lee snaps into a salute. 

“I promise!” 

With a dubious lift of her chin, Maki retreats into the ambassador’s house, where Utatane is calling her name.

* * *

Night has fallen fully over the village and Lee is stowing away his dinner dishes when the knock comes at his door. The sound is faint enough that he almost wonders if he imagined it, but then it comes again, accompanied by the rustling of sand. Lee hurries to the door to admit Gaara into his tiny apartment.

Gaara looks much the same as he had earlier that day, the same unreadable expression dominating his feaures. His Kazekage robes are absent, however, and a thick black coat envelops him, strapped tightly across corded muscles. 

Lee can’t stop himself from gathering Gaara up into another impulsive hug. He can feel the sinew of Gaara’s back shifting as Gaara reaches up to embrace him in return. Lee holds on for a moment too long, but even after he pulls back, Gaara’s hands linger, squeezing at his biceps. 

“Hi,” Lee says finally. Gaara’s hands are hot through the thin material of Lee’s jumpsuit, tiny pinpricks that radiate through him. Lee’s face flushes and he casts his eyes at the floor. 

“It’s good to finally have you to myself,” Gaara says warmly. 

Lee’s mind is racing, Gaara’s hands like a brand on his arms, a steady and irrevocable pressure. His body aches with the twin impulses of leaning forward into that warmth and craning away, making space for his restless thoughts. 

“Gaara,” he starts, “I missed you- “ he opens his mouth to utter a _but,_ his mind echoing with the insistent refrain of _ask him, ask him, ask him_. 

Before he can complete his thought, Gaara interjects.

“I have something to show you,” he says, his voice a low murmur in the still of Lee’s bare room. 

“O-oh?” Lee stutters, but Gaara has already grasped his forearm and is leading him out of the guest quarters and into the quiet, sand-swept streets. 

After they’ve descended the staircase, Gaara drops Lee’s arm. The absence stings at him, colder than the biting wind that cuts through his too-thin clothing. The streets aren’t quite abandoned, even this late at night. As they walk through the village’s main thoroughfares, a few civilians and shinobi hurry past them, their heads ducked against the cold and apparently ignorant of the Kazekage passing through their midst. 

The night air is chillier than Lee expected; this is the first night he’s been out in the desert quite so late. As they approach the edge of the village, the people fewer and further between, Lee brings his hands up to hug his own arms. He rubs at his upper arms vigorously, hoping to subdue his shivers.

Gaara’s stare cuts into him.

“Do you not have a coat?” he asks, his lips barely moving, his tone a combination of criticism and concern. “We can return to your apartment to retrieve it.”

“No, I didn’t bring one,” Lee replies. “It’s silly, I kind of assumed the desert would be hot all the time. I mean, I knew it got cold at night, but I didn’t realize it would be _this_ cold.” Another shudder racks down his spine.

“That was foolhardy,” Gaara says, his voice tense. “Going out unprotected on a desert night could kill you.”

Lee grins back at him. “It really doesn’t bother me, please don’t be concerned.”

Gaara lowers his chin and fixes Lee with a skeptical stare.

“Besides,” Lee jests, “if I get too cold I’ll just open a gate. That should warm me right up!”

Gaara turns to face Lee head-on, his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched tightly. 

“You will _not_ ,” he hisses. 

Lee raises both palms in self-defense, laughing awkwardly. “Gaara, I was only joking,” he protests. 

Gaara’s mouth falls open, his lower lip jutting out in an expression that half-resembles a pout. He crosses both arms firmly across his chest, turning away and walking ahead of Lee. 

“I don’t like jokes about you hurting yourself or doing something dangerous,” he says, his voice so low that Lee hardly hears him. 

An arc of sand rises from the ground and surrounds Lee’s far side, forming a shield that guards him against the worst of the wind. It’s a little bit like walking inside an eggshell, but at least Lee is able to drop his arms. He quickens his pace to catch up to Gaara and the sandy windbreak follows him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Thank you for looking out for me.” 

Gaara doesn’t turn to acknowledge him. “You’ll be warm enough when we get where we’re going,” he replies cryptically.

* * *

At last they arrive at a low-lying plain, just inside the village walls. Stretching into the distance are rows upon rows of long glass buildings, lit from within by a flickering yellow glow. If Lee lets his vision grow unfocused, it almost looks like a vast field of fireflies, captively blinking within their jars. A low electrical hum vibrates the earth beneath their feet and Gaara lets the shield of sand fall away. 

“These are the greenhouses,” he says. “This is where we work on Suna’s more ambitious agricultural projects. We’re currently focusing on sustainable, local plants as food sources.” His tone is stiff, a bit formal, as if this is a speech he’s given many times before.

“It’s amazing,” Lee says, his voice thick with wonder. 

Gaara turns to look at him and his lips quirk up in a small smile. His face is halfway lit up, all the harsh edges of the day worn away into the soft shadow of night. 

“Just wait,” he says. 

He leads Lee to a smaller outbuilding, on the outskirts of the many long rows, set slightly apart from the others. The building is also glass, but its roof is formed like a dome, in contrast to the angular shape of the others, and the doors are secured with a paper seal. 

Gaara presses a palm to the seal and it dissolves away, the doors swinging open to permit them both entry. 

The air inside is indeed as warm as Gaara had promised, almost sticky, thick with the smell of ozone and soil. Strings of electric lights criss-cross the ceiling, bulbs dangling at various heights. Heat lamps stand over long tables of potted plants, conveying their orange warmth onto the greenery below. Although the space is crowded, every surface bedecked with lush foliage, everything is neatly ordered. Rows of plastic planters are arranged by phylum and species, each labeled with a tiny handwritten sign. 

Hanging on a hook just inside the door is a heavy canvas apron embroidered with tiny pink flowers. Atop it rests a wide brimmed sun hat with a gossamer veil. Lee can picture Gaara wearing them, tending to his cacti with a smear of dirt across his nose, and can’t repress a grin. 

“This is my personal greenhouse,” Gaara explains with an expansive gesture that encompasses everything in front of them: the long wooden benches stacked with tidy rows of green cacti, the fragrant blossoms of desert flowers bursting from overflowing planters, the black rubber hoses that run the length of the place, dispensing a fine mist that fills the air, seemingly at random. “It’s where I work on my personal projects.”

“Ohhh,” Lee breathes in awe. “What kinds of projects?”

“Mostly things that are too … experimental for the larger greenhouses. Projects that we may not be ready to attempt on a larger scale, I can work on here. I also use the space to house the plants that have outgrown my office.” He points out a selection of succulents in a low trough of sandy soil. Lee recognizes a few species from the day before, although he couldn’t put a name to them. 

Gaara takes Lee by the hand and guides him down one of the curving rows, pointing out plants here and there, giving their scientific names, their most common uses, details that he seems to have memorized and recites just as fluently as Lee can recite the Oath of Konoha. The unfamiliar words fill Lee’s ears: _Aeonium_ and _Cereus_ , _Lithops_ and _Haworthia_. His eyes stray over sights that bewilder him, shapes that he didn’t even know plants could take: fractals and starbursts and spines and infinitely spiraling clusters, too complex to adequately describe in words. Lee finds his jaw hanging slack until Gaara pauses over a collection of tiny potted cacti, each topped with a petite pink flower, which he identifies as “Hedgehogs”. 

Lee snaps his fingers. 

“That looks just like the one from my apartment!” he announces proudly. “Even the pot is the same.”

Gaara pauses with his hand still outstretched, wearing a strange expression while he studies Lee’s face. 

When it is clear that Lee has nothing further to say on the matter, Gaara returns his gaze to the cactus.

“You know, cactus flowers are said to have a meaning of lust, or sex,” Gaara says. 

Lee chokes on air. That is decidedly _not_ a flower meaning he remembers from his book. 

“Is that so?” he sputters, when the breath has returned to his body. 

Gaara merely hums, seizing Lee by the elbow and leading him further into the greenhouse. His fingers on the tender skin on the inside of Lee’s arm are warmer than any heat lamp. 

In the center of the greenhouse, obscured by the woody stems of octillo and the narrow trunks of Joshua trees, sits a simple plastic basin on a wooden dais. 

“Look,” Gaara whispers into Lee’s ear. He urges Lee forward, letting go of his arm and allowing Lee to take a few tentative steps forward on his own. 

Lee peers into the basin. 

“The lotus!” he exclaims. And indeed it is: a bit smaller, the petals perhaps not quite as full as he remembers, but unmistakably the same flower he gifted Gaara in the summer. 

He hears Gaara behind him tinkering with some sort of machinery. To Lee’s surprise, a current of water begins to flow through the basin and sets the lotus to spinning, hypnotically.

“What are you doing?” Lee asks. 

Gaara is back at his shoulder in an instant, his breath warm against the back of Lee’s exposed neck.

“Filtering the water,” he replies. “I had to set aside some from my own rations for this particular passion project.” 

Lee’s eyes widen.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even consider-” 

Gaara interrupts him.

“It’s no hardship,” he says. His raspy voice sounds breathier, intimate in the enclosed space. Here in the middle of all this plantlife, the two of them are utterly cut off from the rest of the world, sequestered away from prying eyes and gossiping mouths. Lee is about to object that it _does_ sound like a hardship, and a substantial one at that, but his attention is caught by Gaara’s hand trailing down his shoulder and settling in the small of his back. They both fall into quiet contemplation, staring at the ripples the lotus makes in the water.

“It’s funny,” Gaara says after a moment. “The day I got your letter, it bloomed for the second time.”

“It must be that time of year,” Lee says, turning to meet Gaara’s eyes. Their faces are scant inches apart. “My orchid just bloomed too, the same day I left.”

Gaara fairly beams: a true smile with his teeth exposed. It’s a little unnerving, to tell the truth, each of his sharp canines glinting in the low light. Still, the sight sets Lee’s heart aflutter. He realizes he’s rarely seen Gaara’s teeth, perhaps only when biting into a piece of fruit. He mentally catalogs his desire to see Gaara eat more often in the future, if it means getting to see his teeth again, bright and straight and white. Or maybe he just needs to make Gaara smile like this more often (though Lee isn’t sure how he did it), until the expression comes to his face naturally.

“You kept it,” Gaara says, the words weighty with meaning that Lee can’t decipher. “And cared for it until it blossomed. You must have taken excellent care of it.” 

“I tried my best,” Lee replies. “It was given to me by a very important person.” 

Gaara’s gaze drops from his eyes and fixates on Lee’s lips. 

“A very important person,” Gaara repeats, his mouth clumsy on the words, emphasizing the wrong syllables. “Yes…”

The question Lee wants to ask beats against the back of his teeth, as insistent as the wings of a trapped bird. “Gaara- “ 

“I have more I want to show you,” Gaara cuts in. “Can I?” 

The moment shatters like glass around them. 

“Of course,” Lee replies. “Lead the way.”

Gaara guides Lee to the other side of the greenhouse, indicating the most interesting plants along the way. His voice is a low patter Lee could listen to forever, the words rhythmic and soothing. Gaara is an informational fount, and Lee finds himself rapt with attention, hanging onto every word Gaara says. 

They stray into rows of medicinal succulents, Gaara recalling facts and figures while Lee works the words over in his mind and tries to come up with insightful questions to ask. This is no small feat, owing largely to Lee’s distraction. Gaara’s hand hasn't left his lower back, fingers still stroking along his spine, setting off sparks everywhere he touches. Sometimes Gaara leans in close - to part the dirt and show Lee the root system of a creosote bush, or to make Lee squeeze the thick pulp of a moonstone, or to pull Lee’s fingers away from the spines of a feather cactus - and his hand slips around and cups Lee's waist. His fingers dwell on Lee’s hip, and Lee finds it even harder to focus.

They’re lingering over a pot of _Echeveria colorata_ , Gaara’s deft fingers caressing the arched stems of its flower (and Lee’s spine in turn), when Lee feels a yawn rising in his throat. He raises a hand to cover his mouth, and Gaara turns to stare at him. 

“You need your rest,” Gaara says. “I’ll walk you back to your apartment.” 

Lee goes to protest but a monstrous yawn breaks its way free from behind his hand. The corner of Gaara’s lip twitches in response. 

“Come,” he says. “You have important duties to attend to tomorrow.”

Lee waits patiently by the door while Gaara fusses briefly over a mortar and pestle near the medicinal herbs, slipping something into his pocket before he walks Lee back out into the cold desert night. He raises the shell of sand around Lee immediately this time, sheltering him from the wind before it can make its chill presence known. 

They take the long way around the village, avoiding the busiest streets, their path flanked by the flashing eyes of desert creatures in the dark.

* * *

Back in Lee’s modest kitchenette, Gaara hovers near the rickety kitchen table, his stillness disrupted by uncharacteristic hesitation. The single bare lightbulb illuminates the room harshly, deepening the shadows around Gaara’s eyes. Lee finishes unrolling his futon, then comes to stand next to him.

“There’s one other thing,” Gaara says, depositing a small black container on the table with a _thunk_. 

Lee stretches and rolls his shoulders, exhausted but still eager to see what Gaara has in store. 

Gaara twists off the top of the container, revealing a pale gel inside. The scent is vaguely familiar to Lee’s nose, sharp and acerbic. 

“It’s more aloe ferox,” Gaara explains, holding it out to Lee. “How is your injury healing?”

If Lee is honest with himself, he hasn’t thought about his injury at all since Gaara treated it. It’s nothing more than a single scrape in a long line of lacerations before it, with many more to come in the future. 

He shrugs, but Gaara has already gripped Lee’s injured hand in his own, fingers plucking nervously at Lee’s bandages.

“It’s fine, I think,” Lee says.

“I could treat it again for you,” Gaara says, pulling the end of the bandage out from Lee’s palm and maneuvering Lee to sit in the single, spindly legged chair. “Just to make sure.”

Lee opens his mouth to agree but can’t suppress another mighty yawn. Gaara takes a step backwards and lets Lee’s hand drop to his lap. 

“I shouldn’t keep you,” Lee says, his tone heavy with regret.

“I’ll take my leave,” Gaara replies, but he steps closer once again. He presses his face to the crown of Lee’s head. Lee feels him breathing there, for just a moment, before he breaks away. 

“Promise you’ll take care of yourself,” Gaara mutters from the door, before Lee has even raised his head to turn around. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” 

“I promise,” Lee whispers to the closing door. 

Lee falls asleep to those words repeating in his ears, chased by the feeling of what he can’t be sure was a kiss:

_Tomorrow night._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally able to put a definitive chapter count on this! We're looking at 4 more chapters before everything is all wrapped up. 
> 
> And one more shout out to the GaaLee Discord for helping me be more productive with my writing than I have in months! Thanks so much, y'all.
> 
> If you wanna check out some of the plants that are in Gaara's greenhouse, [this website](https://www.ftd.com/blog/share/desert-plants) has beautiful color pictures arranged by species. I also use [World of Succulents](https://worldofsucculents.com/) for lots and lots of great information about succulent cultivation, if you ever want to fact check me.


	7. Chapter 7

Before he wraps his bandages in the morning, Lee takes a moment to rub the aloe ferox salve into his skin. Not because he particularly feels he needs it - the wound is healing well enough on its own, little more than a scabbed pink line on his palm - but because he knows it’s important to Gaara. It feels nice to be thought of in that way, tenderly and cared-for. He applies it to a couple stray abrasions on his knuckles, too, for good measure, the acid sting of it grounding in the quiet of his apartment. 

He takes the long way to the ambassador’s house, through the marketplace. Despite his late evening out, he woke up a bit early, feeling refreshed and bright-eyed. He briefly considers making the journey on his hands, the training opportunity almost too tempting to pass up, but ultimately decides the market stalls are better enjoyed right-side-up. 

Even early in the morning, the market is bustling with noise and color. Merchants roll out thick blankets on the ground, a bricolage of patterns and hues. Various trinkets and jewels wink out at him from shadowed wooden benches. Shopkeepers unfurl the heavy canvas overhangs that protect their storefronts from the worst of the heat, faded by the sun. The air is full with the smell of spices and the call of morning greetings. 

Lee grins at everyone he sees, waving good morning at those who smile back, but not letting it affect him when most don’t return his cheer. He knows he sticks out like a sore thumb here - a bright green beacon among muted tans and deep blood reds. 

He’s just leaving one of the stands, happily chewing on a slice of pan-fried bread dipped in honey, when he sees something disconcerting. 

Exiting the stall next to him is a stocky man carrying a canvas shopping bag. He’s a bit older than Lee, with a receding hairline and patchy stubble. This in itself isn’t alarming at all; in fact, the man couldn’t look more ordinary. No, what disquiets Lee are the distinctive scars cut through the man’s eyebrow. The man makes eye contact with Lee - his eyes are tired (more than tired, really, _exhausted_ ), red rimmed from fatigue or tears - and his scarred eyebrow raises. 

Time dilates around them. 

All the bustle of the marketplace fades out, replaced with a ringing in Lee’s ears.

The wax paper crumples in Lee’s hand.

The man mouths a curse. 

Lee takes one step forward just as the man starts forming hand seals. Lee reaches one arm out, his breakfast falling into the sandy street. He opens his mouth to cry out, but no sooner has he done so than the man is _gone_. Vanished, as if the ground has just swallowed him up.

A tremor shakes the whole street and noise floods back in as Lee’s hearing comes back to him, just in time to hear the villagers gasp and scream. As quickly as it came, the tremor passes, leaving only the tinkling of broken glass in its wake. Lee quickly surveys the scene: there’s no apparent major damage and no noticeable injuries, so he rushes to where the man disappeared.

All that’s left behind is an empty canvas bag and a ring of disturbed earth.

* * *

Lee hurries to the ambassador’s house, where he breathlessly reports his findings. Maki’s expression is one of stoic resolve, but Utatane looks faintly furious, a vein in her forehead bulging. 

She insists they leave immediately, stalking down the path to the Kazekage Tower with Lee and Maki trailing behind her like cowed dogs. Lee is almost surprised the sand at her feet doesn’t turn to glass from the heat of her glare.

She slams the door of Temari’s office open without knocking. 

Lee experiences a brief moment of regret that Gaara isn’t the one handling this investigation - Temari has taken the lead since she received their first report - and then immediately scolds himself. Given the seriousness of the circumstances, there’s no time to be distracted by romantic fantasies.

“Lady Temari, I demand your audience immediately,” Utatane says, with a look that sends Temari’s skinny assistant scuttling for the door. 

Temari barely raises her head from the assorted papers on her desk, one eyebrow raised. She mutters, “I hope it’s nothing serious, Utatane-sama.” 

Lee envies her cool. 

“It is,” Utatane replies. “It appears your village may be harboring another would-be assassin.” 

This time, Lee does perceive a minute shock pass over Temari’s face, before she schools her expression back to cautious neutrality. 

“I assure you, we are doing everything within our power to track the individual who made an attempt on your life. Unfortunately, with the number of casualties unaccounted from in the war, and the number of shinobi presumed killed in battle - well, you can see how it would be a perfect storm for someone who was waiting for their opportunity to go rogue.”

“Indeed?” Utatane hisses. “I’m disappointed, but not surprised, to hear that your record keeping is so sloppy. Lee, tell her what you observed.” With an imperious gesture, Utatane compels Lee forward. He stumbles a bit before falling to his knees in front of Temari’s desk at her indication. Temari’s eyes are narrowed in irritation, but she holds her tongue. 

In halting, staggering words, Lee lays out what he witnessed in the marketplace: the man’s scarred eyebrow, how he vanished without a trace, the ring of disturbed earth left behind. 

When he describes the coincidental earthquake that shook the market street, Temari’s mouth drops open around a gasp. 

“So you know this shinobi,” Utatane interjects, one wrinkled finger pointing straight at Temari’s face. 

Temari leans back slightly, her expression guarded. She begins shuffling through papers on her desk.

“I have a hunch - but it isn’t enough to confirm. There was a four-man squad who were killed during the war … some sort of flame jutsu took them all out. It was friendly fire- “ 

“Regrettable, but such things happen during wartime,” Utatane interrupts. 

Temari doesn’t even acknowledge her before continuing on. “We only recovered the jounin leader’s body, but her husband and the other two chunin on their squad - well, we assumed the heat was too severe for there to be any remains left at all. Multiple allied shinobi at the scene saw them all consumed by the flames, but- “ 

“And the body of the man who made the first attempt on my life, did it match the description of any of those squad members?”

Temari raises her head and locks eyes with Utatane. 

“Frankly, Utatane-sama, the description could have matched any number of missing or deceased shinobi.”

“So you have nothing,” Utatane says, her eyes narrowing further, her face a mask of rage.

“Please sit, and I will gladly bring you up to speed on the status of our investigation. I mean you no ill will.” Temari makes a calming gesture with her hands. “Know that the events you’ve described concern me just as much as they concern you.” 

“I very much doubt that,” Utatane huffs, but she does take a seat on on one of the low cushions in front of Temari’s desk. “I agree, however, that I deserve to be apprised of your progress towards identifying who among your villagers would wish for my death.”

“I apologize for being so close-lipped about the matter,” Temari demurs with a dip of her head. 

Lee wonders if Utatane is aware of the smug quirk at the corner of Temari’s mouth that indicates that she’s satisfied with having diplomatically wrangled Utatane onto equal footing, or if he is simply uniquely accustomed to reading the Sand Siblings’ microexpressions from his time spent with Gaara. 

“I wanted to wait until we had something concrete to offer you,” Temari continues. “However, the events of this morning seem to have forced my hand. Despite our best efforts, we don’t have much in the way of evidence.”

Utatane raises her chin haughtily, waiting for Temari to go on.

“We sent a scouting team out to the location where Lee-san reported burying the body, hoping we would be able to identify it, but …” Temari pauses. “... there was nothing there. The grave was empty, just filled back in with soil. The scouts only even knew it was the grave site because of Lee-san’s detailed directions and a ring of dirt that was kicked up.”

Nobody in the room misses the heft of those last few words. 

“What about the senbon?” Lee blurts out. Utatane cuts her eyes sharply at him. 

Temari doesn’t even spare him a glance. “Nothing,” she says. “The poison was common, too generic to be traced. Knowing that the individual - or individuals - involved may still be in the village … well, at least it gives us something to work with.”

“Not much, in light of the increased danger,” Utatane says, scowling. 

“Perhaps not, but one lead is better than no leads. I promise we will keep you abreast of the investigation as it moves forward. In the meantime, we could offer you additional guard, perhaps an ANBU- ”

Utatane rises from her position, halting the conversation abruptly. Lee and Maki also scramble to their feet, exchanging wary glances.

“There’s no need for such excess.”

“Overnight, then, your envoy could stay with you- “ 

Maki nods along with the words enthusiastically, her headwrap fluttering with the motion. Lee’s heart sinks like a stone. Of course, he’ll do whatever is needed to protect his charge, but his plans for tonight ...

“No,” Utatane cuts back. “I’m not so defenseless, myself.” Her nose juts into the air, the decorations on her hair ornaments flashing in the light. “Other than the Kazekage Tower, there’s nowhere in the village that I’ll be safer than my son’s house. Despite her failings as a housewife, I have no doubts in my daughter-in-law’s competency as a shinobi. And I crafted their house’s seals myself.”

“I see,” Temari murmurs. “Then, is there no concession I can make to you?”

“I don’t want your concessions, Lady Temari, I want you to find the man who would have me killed!” 

Utatane spins on her heel, stomping out of the room. Lee and Maki follow behind her, both ducking their heads to Temari in apology on their way out the door. 

As the door shutters behind them, Utatane mutters under her breath: “You might have caught him if you were a bit faster. Tired out from running all over the village with foreign kunoichi, I see.” 

Lee’s face heats in shame. He almost protests, but then thinks better of it. 

“I promise I will do better, Utatane-sama! I will protect you with my life if necessary!” he shouts. 

A passing aide shushes him. 

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Maki utters grimly.

* * *

The remainder of the day is uneventful - Utatane spends most of it behind closed doors - and there are no signs of anything out of the ordinary on the walk back to the ambassador’s house. At the gates of the house, Utatane again brushes off Maki’s offer of overnight guard, to Lee’s uneasy relief. (Although, he sees Maki lingering suspiciously behind when he takes his leave; he doubts she intends to leave Utatane unguarded, after all.) Lee debates staying behind himself, but he doesn’t think Utatane would accept the gesture from him with nearly as much grace as she might from Maki. 

Instead, he returns to the market to revisit the scene, turning up nothing more than he did initially. He does notice a few jounin skulking around, in the way that ninja often feign going about ordinary tasks when in fact they’re on a mission, and assumes Temari’s team is doing their job better than he could hope to. 

Lee would probably be more useful in a fight than in an investigation anyway, he reasons, so he carries himself back to his apartment, occupied with his own chaotic thoughts. 

And now, he waits, turning over the morning’s events in his mind. He reconsiders the scene from a million different angles, tries to think of ways he could have reacted faster, reached the other man sooner, before he disappeared. Lee knows he’s fast - faster than most other ninja, from a purely physical standpoint - and no matter how many times he runs back through the moment, he doesn’t see how the man could have gotten away. There must have been some type of ninjutsu involved. Probably an earth style, if the tremors afterwards were any indication. At least he knows what to look out for next time. 

Lee glances over at the clock and finds the hour has grown late, much later than when Gaara arrived last night. He watches the minutes tick over for a long while, until his eyes are growing heavy. He hopes Gaara hasn’t forgotten about him, or gotten caught up in some important business that he can’t get away from. 

Eventually, Lee concedes Gaara may not be coming at all. He puts on his pajamas (really just sweatpants and a t-shirt), but some stray hope keeps him sitting awake at the table, staring out the window. The sky is so dark blue it’s almost purple, speckled with stars like a lantern with holes punched in it. The full moon is at the zenith of its path across the sky, little more than a tiny bright-white sphere. 

He’s almost dozing off, head nodding on his neck, when a shadow falls across his face and startles him awake. He looks up to see a ball of sand blocking the moonlight - Gaara’s Third Eye jutsu. 

_You can come up,_ he mouths, silently. 

Moments later there’s a rapping at his door, and Lee’s already waiting to open it. 

This time Gaara initiates the embrace, crowding into Lee’s space and wrapping his arms around Lee’s waist before he can even manage a greeting. He tucks his head under Lee’s chin, his coarse hair tickling Lee’s nose. 

Lee briefly resists, then gives in to the impulse to press his face fully to Gaara’s hair and inhale. He smells good - like sealing wax and dusty vellum - and Lee can’t stop a smile creeping over his face.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Gaara mumbles into Lee’s chest. He squeezes Lee tightly one more time before stepping back. He looks a little bit rumpled - partially from Lee mussing his hair, but there’s also some strands at his temples that look like he’s been pulling on them himself - and the bags beneath his eyes are more pronounced than usual. 

“Are you all right?” Lee asks.

Gaara’s eyes widen in an imitation of startlement.

“Yes,” he says. “I was hoping to get through all my paperwork so I could give you my undivided attention, but a project got away from me.” 

“Oh.” Lee isn’t quite sure what to say to that. He feels the tips of his ears getting red. 

“I brought you this.” Gaara holds something out, a dark bundle Lee hadn’t even realized he was carrying. Lee takes it from him and unfolds it - it’s a black coat, made of heavy material and lined with plush fur, impossibly soft. 

“A coat?” Lee says, questioning.

“I didn’t want you to be cold.”

“This is too much,” Lee protests, trying to shove the coat back into Gaara’s hands.

“It’s an old one of Kankuro’s,” Gaara explains, pushing the coat back towards Lee more forcibly. Lee could resist, but instead he lets Gaara press against him, enjoying the strength of him.

“But- “

“He won’t miss it,” Gaara says. “I almost brought you one of mine -” Gaara gestures to his own jacket - mahogany red with a row of gold buttons down the single breast, cut high and impeccably tailored in a way that emphasizes his narrow waist. “- but I didn’t think it would fit.” 

Lee tears his mind away from the thoughts of wrapping his arms around Gaara’s waist again for long enough to nod in agreement. 

“Try it on,” Gaara urges. 

Lee shrugs the coat onto his shoulders. It’s actually a little bit loose - Kankuro is somewhat more broadly built across the back than Lee - but it fits just fine. 

“It fits!” Lee says. 

Gaara grins that tiny, secret grin of his, something self-satisfied about the quirk of his lips. He steps in to zip the coat for Lee, his fingers lingering at Lee’s collar. The gesture is almost too intimate for the closed space, the proximity stifling. 

Lee gulps audibly. 

“I wasn’t able to leave my desk after lunch,” Gaara says, still not moving away. “Will you join me for dinner?” 

Lee, who definitely has already eaten and isn’t really very hungry at all, blinks back into reality. He fixes Gaara with a broad smile. 

“Sure!” he says.

* * *

They’re halfway across the village before Lee thinks to ask Gaara where they’re going. The heavy coat is remarkably warm, protecting him from the worst of the wind, although his cheeks still sting. Belatedly, he also realizes he forgot his wallet, which is still tucked away in his jounin vest back at the apartment. 

“We're going to my house,” Gaara says. “I was planning to cook.” He pauses in his step in the narrow street, glancing over at Lee but not making eye contact. “If that’s all right.”

“That sounds wonderful!” Lee says. He has never seen the inside of Gaara’s house before, although he knows where it is. “Lead the way!” 

“I was,” Gaara replies, as he resumes his soft footsteps down the moonlit street.

* * *

The Kazekage manor is, frankly, a little bit ridiculous in size, especially considering that it only houses three people at the moment. The kitchen has a full four-burner stove and a wood-fired oven. The counters are made of polished sandstone inlaid with flecks of gold and laboradorite. It’s the sort of overwhelming ostentatiousness that Lee has a hard time reconciling with the appearance of Gaara, his bare feet curling on the cool tile and his jacket slung over a chair back, the sleeves of his thin linen shirt rolled up as he chops vegetables.

Lee sits in a high-backed barstool at the kitchen counter, feeling woefully underdressed for his first visit to the Kazekage’s home in his wrinkled pajamas. Kankuro’s coat is thrown over the back of the stool behind him and he kicks his stockinged feet while Gaara cooks. 

Lee had offered to help, of course, but Gaara shooed him out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon that he wielded just as deftly as his sand. The kitchen is warm, filled with the sound of sizzling meat and the smell of spices that are foreign to Lee’s nose. He watches the muscles of Gaara’s back flex as he stirs the food, every new angle fascinating. They don’t talk, but the silence between them is comfortable, companionable. Lee feels a sense of nostalgic domesticity that he can’t quite place. 

Then, Kankuro enters the kitchen.

“Ahh, man, something smells good!” Kankuro strides right up to Gaara, stretching his arms over his head to crack his back. “You making enough to share?”

Gaara looks meaningfully over his shoulder.

“Hello, Kankuro!” Lee calls from the counter. 

Kankuro jumps half a foot in the air, reeling backwards in surprise, but quickly adopts a look of feigned nonchalance.

“Ah, hey, look who it is! Fancy seeing you here at this time of night.”

“Lee is my guest,” Gaara says, a bit sharply. 

“That’s cool, that’s cool,” Kankuro says. “Hope you’re making him something good.” He leans over Gaara’s shoulder to look into the pot on the stove. There’s a beat of silence, then: “Oh, c’mon, man, you can’t serve him that weird shit!”

Gaara steps back from Kankuro’s judgmental look, his face transforming into a resentful pout. “It’s not _weird_ , it’s traditional.”

“Yeah, and you know foreigners can’t tolerate _traditional_.” Kankuro rolls his eyes. “Look, all I’m saying is, you’re gonna have a hell of a time wooing a dude if you’re making him eat salty lemons.”

Gaara gives him an alarmed and warning look in response. Lee feels his own eyes get wide and quickly turns to study his hands, pretending they have suddenly become very interesting. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kankuro’s hands come up defensively. 

“Listen, I’m just saying you coulda made him a cup noodle like the rest of us.”

“Cup noodle is the reason you’re teetering dangerously close to hypertension,” Gaara replies.

“Low blow!” Kankuro cries. “Party foul!” 

Gaara’s lip curves and he raises an eyebrow. Lee isn’t even trying to pretend he’s not watching the theatrics at this point. 

“I’m not gonna stand here and let you impugn my character,” Kankuro fusses. “I’m outta here, I got work to do anyway. Serves me right for trying to give my brother some good advice.” He starts making his way out of the kitchen. 

“Don’t fill up on junk,” Gaara chides him. “I’ll leave you some leftovers on the stove.”

As he walks past Lee on his way to the other side of the house, Kankuro pauses for a moment. 

“Hey, nice coat,” he says. “I have one just like it!”

Lee looks at Kankuro, then at Gaara, then back at Kankuro, his expression one of faint alarm. Behind Kankuro’s shoulder, Gaara shakes his head slightly.

“Um, thanks!” Lee says with a wobbly grin.

“Mine’s cooler than that, though,” Kankuro calls, as the door shuts behind him. 

Lee heaves a sigh of relief as Gaara spoons their food into bowls and comes to sit beside him at the bar. 

Gaara scoots his barstool over until their ankles touch, each elbowing the other as they go to take bites of food. The closeness is nice, tactile, Gaara’s skin warm and reassuring where it touches Lee’s. He hasn’t rolled his sleeves back down, so Lee gets to enjoy the ripple of his forearm as he maneuvers his spoon to his mouth.

Gaara is a surprisingly good cook - just another symptom of Gaara’s irrepressible genius, Lee assumes - even if the food is, admittedly, a little bit weird. It’s obviously well-prepared, the meat moist (although Lee suspects it to be offal rather than a more traditional cut) and the vegetables perfectly crisp. The flavors aren’t bad, either, just unfamiliar. Thick spices coat Lee’s tongue with hints of bitterness, acrid with brine and dark with licorice. 

“Sorry it’s not curry,” Gaara says. “I don’t know how to make it.”

“Oh!” Lee says around a mouthful of food. “I could teach you!” 

Gaara smiles, just a twitch of his mouth, and his foot hooks around Lee’s, the press of the bare skin of their ankles together oddly thrilling.

“I would like that,” he says. His head tilts sideways until the tips of his hair brush Lee’s shoulder.

* * *

Once the dishes are washed, dried, and put away (with Lee’s assistance, over Gaara’s protests), they pull their coats back on. Gaara guides Lee through the dark and winding hallways of the upper floor of the Kazekage manor to a small, unassuming wooden door, held closed with a filigreed latch. 

Gaara props the door open with his body, the aperture narrow enough that Lee has to squeeze past him, shoulder brushing chest. Gaara breathes against his ear as he passes and Lee shivers. 

Lee steps through the door and Gaara closes it behind him, sealing them into the silence of the outside world. Lee’s gasp rings loud in the stillness. 

The two of them are standing on the roof of the Kazekage manor, all of Suna stretched out below them. The domed roofs of the village are aglow with the honeyed light of oil lamps. Above them the violet sky stretches out, penumbral, dotted with pinpricks of twinkling light. 

“I’ve been wanting to show you this,” Gaara says. He takes Lee’s hand in his, fingers interlocking warmly. 

Gaara leads Lee to the edge of the roof, the soles of their feet faintly rimmed in blue to secure them on the rounded surface. Gaara’s hand insistently tugs at Lee’s own until they stabilize at a lower center of gravity; they both lay back to face the expanse above. 

They lie there, silent, for a moment, hand-in-hand. Lee breathes in deep, the cold air crisp and crystallizing in his lungs. He breathes out plumes of vapor that disperse above him, glittering like stars in their own right. He hears Gaara’s breathing sync with his, feels the pounding of Gaara’s pulse against his wrist. 

Gaara clears his throat, shifting. Abruptly, he rolls onto his side, pinning Lee’s arm beneath his body. They’re pressed, again, chest-to-shoulder, the horizontal mirror of their earlier position. 

“The full moon … “ he says. 

Lee waits for him to go on, counting the damp exhalations against his cheek. 

“It used to make me restless.” Gaara’s figure is like a splattered pool of ink to Lee’s left, his face little more than shadow and eyeshine in the dark. “The full moon is when Shukaku was most active, and when the seal between us was weakest. As a child, on nights like this, I could feel him pacing in his cage, rattling the bars.

“Do you remember?” Gaara asks the empty air. He isn’t really looking at Lee. 

“Not really,” Lee confesses. 

Gaara huffs a laugh that ghosts across Lee’s neck, gentle as a caress.

“But hasn’t it been a long time? Since you had the demon in you, I mean.”

“The feeling never left. Even after I- “ Gaara pauses, and his fingers twitch uneasily in Lee’s. “- after the seal was broken, some of his chakra remained, and with it, the agitation.” 

Gaara’s breathing gets heavier. The full moon above them glistens like a backlit pearl. 

“I used to come up here, where nobody could hurt me, and I couldn’t hurt them.”

Lee hums his understanding. 

“You don’t seem upset right now, though,” Lee says. 

A hand comes up and traces over Lee’s browline, strays down the bridge of his nose, skirts the edges of his lips. Lee holds himself perfectly still, utterly at ease despite the strangeness of the gesture. 

“I’m not.” Gaara’s lips brush against his ear. Lee can feel the bulb of Gaara’s nose grazing his hairline. “That’s the odd part. With you, I feel … calm. There’s an internal stillness that I can’t name.” 

Gaara shifts further, twists until he’s crouched over Lee’s prone form, his body weight bracing Lee against the roof. Gaara’s right hand is still clasped in Lee’s left, Gaara’s fingers pressing firm against Lee’s bandages. 

“Isn’t it funny?” Gaara whispers. “We show other people our most vulnerable parts, roll over and expose our underbellies, and expect that to make us stronger.”

Lee doesn’t quite see the humor in that, although he agrees with the sentiment. 

“But it does,” Lee murmurs back, “make us stronger.” His words turn to a white cloud above his mouth.

Gaara breathes the words in and breathes out a cloud of his own: fainter, ephemeral. Lee inhales, Gaara’s breath filling his own lungs, the two of them suspended for a moment in simultaneous symbiosis. 

There, in the anonymous dark, Gaara hovering over him like a wraith, a slow confidence knits itself inside Lee. His hand comes up of its own volition to cup Gaara’s face and stroke one finely arched cheekbone. Gaara cranes into the touch, seeking contact like a long-neglected creature. Lee’s confidence grows, fortifies itself, as tensile and flexible as steel trip wires. 

“Gaara,” he says finally. “What Kankuro said earlier- “ He falters.

Gaara leans back. His weight settles somewhere around Lee’s mid-thigh. Lee’s right hand drops back to the rooftop at his side, but Gaara doesn’t release the other. 

“Kankuro says many things.” Lee can hear Gaara’s disgruntled expression, the petulance familiar. “Most of them are foolish.”

Lee coaxes Gaara back towards him with a hand in his hair, until their faces are close again and the air between them warm with their exhalations. 

“What I mean is- “ Lee struggles again, every rehearsed word falling oddly off his tongue, a stone rolling heavy down his throat and weighing in his gut. The fortifications inside him waver but hold firm. “What I mean is, what _are_ we?”

Even in the dark, Lee detects Gaara’s silent confusion. His fingers clench against Lee’s knuckles, fingertips scrabbling against the rooftop. 

“We’re shinobi,” he says, at last, his tone questioning. 

“No!” Lee briefly indulges in letting his head tilt backwards in exasperation, just long enough to give his eyes a good roll. “I mean, _us_ , together, our relationship! What do you intend- “

“I thought my intentions were obvious,” Gaara interjects. His voice radiates caution and uncertainty.

“Obvious?” Lee scrambles to sit up, Gaara falling backwards to splay across his thighs. “Gaara, you sent me three letters in nine months! Not one of them made it any clearer how you feel about me.” 

With them both upright, the lights from the village below uplight Gaara’s face with a golden aura, his furrowed brow painted in indigo shadows. To Lee’s immense frustration, he looks gorgeous, like a work of art crafted from his most closely held fantasies.

“You would have liked … more letters,” Gaara ventures. 

“No!” Lee cries. “I mean, _yes_ , but it’s about more than the letters.”

“Gifts, then,” Gaara confirms. “You sent the candies, and the mug. You would have liked more gifts?” 

“It’s not really about the gifts, either,” Lee groans. “It’s about … tokens of affection. Showing the other person you’re thinking about them, that you care about them, _if_ you care about them.” 

Gaara purses his lips, his expression contemplative. He pulls himself to a fully upright position, his knees under him. He extends one finger.

“I kissed you.” He holds up another. “I made you a morning glory, because of the importance of your festival and the meaning listed in your book.” Another finger. “I sent you a bezoar for your protection that saved you from poisoning.” Another. “I left a cactus in your apartment, the meaning of which is also in your book - I checked.” Now the thumb. “I made a salve for your wound and treated it by my own hand.” Switching to the other hand, he holds up a final finger. “And I sent you a flower bud,” - here, he points at Lee directly - “which _you_ cultivated to blooming.”

With the evidence all laid out like that in an ordinal list, Lee does feel a little silly for having missed the signs. 

“I admit my source was a bit dated, but it was nonetheless very clear on this matter,” Gaara concludes.

Now it is Lee’s turn to be cast into confusion.

“Source? What are you talking about?” 

Gaara exhales through his nose sharply.

“Come, I’ll show you.”

* * *

Gaara’s study, in comparison to his office, is remarkably spare, lit with a single oil lamp and warm enough that Lee takes his coat off again. There’s a bookshelf with a few potted cacti, a single large hanging scroll with Suna’s insignia, and a desk up against the far window. Lee notes with faint amusement a set of light hand weights and what appears to be a small Zen garden full of iron shavings along the back of the desk. He supposes Gaara has little use for a traditional one filled with sand. 

Gaara carefully extracts an ancient tome from the bookshelf. Its cover is worn blue fabric, fading and threadbare along the spine, the dust jacket lost to time. The title stands out along the front, embossed in flaking gold print: _A Treatise on Social Mores in Shinobi Society: Rules, Regulations, and Traditions_. With little fanfare, Gaara leafs through it to a bookmarked page, holding the book out to Lee. 

Lee takes it in both his hands, the weight of it surprising. The book’s pages are thin, translucent onion skin, and the ink is worn away in places, the history of dozens of thumbs leaving their mark on the corners of the pages. The chapter heading is ornately scripted, unnecessarily flourished and ending with a purlicue. _Courtship_ , it reads. 

Lee traces down the text with his finger. The language is dated, a bit difficult to follow in places, and Lee finds himself sounding out unfamiliar words. Regardless, the content is more or less clear: _When you intend to court a kunoichi, give her the seeds of a flower. She will use her feminine skills to cultivate the blossom. If the plant survives to bloom, this indicates your relationship will be a success._

That explains Gaara’s exacting plant care instructions, ever superstitious but leaving little to chance. 

“Obviously, you are not a kunoichi,” Gaara interrupts Lee’s reading, “but I had to make do with what was available. Relationships between two men were not acceptable at the time the book was written.” 

“They’re not really that acceptable now,” Lee mutters. 

Gaara breezes right past that comment. “I assumed, since you had given me the lotus flower, that you were also aware of this custom. Your initial letter also confirmed your intent.” 

Lee bites his lower lip. This is good news, he thinks, but also bewildering, overwhelming. His emotions are a turmoil, riotous in his belly. There is a lot of miscommunication they need to overcome here, but Lee has never shied away from confronting a problem head-on. 

“So this means… you want a relationship? A serious, romantic relationship,” he confirms, cautiously. 

“Obviously.” Gaara nods once, decisive. 

Lee splutters. “No, it wasn’t obvious! That’s my whole point! If we’re going to do this, and do this right - customs or no customs - you have to use your words. I can’t read your mind, Gaara!” He throws his hands in the air, the book’s pages fluttering. 

Gaara stands stock still for a moment, then steps forward, gently taking the book from Lee’s hand. He sets it delicately on the desk behind him and cups both of Lee’s hands between his own. 

“So you want…” Gaara stops to think on it for a moment. “... more words.” 

“Yes!” 

“ _Longer_ letters, then?” 

“Now you’re just being deliberately obtuse!” Lee huffs. 

Gaara’s eyes sparkle just a little bit with wicked mirth. 

“It’s not the length that’s important,” Lee explains, just in case he hasn’t been absolutely, one-hundred-percent crystal clear, “it’s the content. Gai-sensei always says ‘Communication is the most important part of any relationship’!” Lee clenches his fist, the stirring emotions of his teacher’s immense sagacity pricking at his eyes. 

Gaara tilts his head. “Your teacher is very wise.” 

“I know, but that’s beside the point.” Lee shakes his head to clear it. If a couple of tears sneak out at the same time, well, that’s to be expected. “If you want a relationship with me, that’s what I need. Communication.” 

Gaara nods again, his expression suddenly serious. “I can endeavor to be more communicative,” he agrees. 

“And send longer letters,” Lee reminds him.

“Yes, that too.” 

“Short letters are okay, too, if you’re busy.” 

“I can do that.” 

“It doesn’t even need to be a letter, it can be a picture, or- ” 

“Even if it isn’t a letter, I’ll send you something,” Gaara interjects. “Would once a week be too often?” 

“Once a week would be ideal,” Lee affirms, leaning in towards Gaara.

“Then it’s settled.” Gaara’s hands are hot, tense on Lee’s own as he moves closer. 

“Yes,” Lee agrees. They’re straying fully into each other’s space now. 

“Can I kiss you now?” Gaara asks.

“Please”. 

They fall into each other, like binary stars collapsing into each other's’ orbits, the gravitational pull too much to resist. Gaara’s mouth is supernova hot on Lee’s own, the draw of him like peeking over the event horizon and falling in, suspended indefinitely in time and space, the constellation of their bodies in parallax. 

Lee’s hands finally, blessedly, make their way around Gaara’s narrow waist, the sensation just as satisfying as he anticipated. He digs his thumbs into the divots on either side of Gaara’s spine. Gaara makes a muted sound into Lee’s mouth that drives him utterly to distraction, driven to pursue it again and again. His tongue tastes like bitter lemon, the sting of salt, and smoky cardamom. Lee chases the taste. One of Lee’s hands snakes up to cup Gaara’s face, thumb stroking the thin scar under his eye, and Gaara’s eyes flutter shut around a stifled moan.

Gaara’s fingers climb their way up under Lee’s t-shirt to paw at the muscles of his stomach. He pushes in, crowds Lee until he sprawls backwards into the cushioned desk chair. Gaara decisively climbs into his lap, straddling him and letting the full weight of himself crush against Lee, chest-to-chest. He holds fast to the sides of Lee’s face, strokes his cheekbones, his ears, his hairline. The boniness of his knees digs into Lee’s hips and through the thin fabric of his shirt, Lee feels Gaara’s heart pounding against his chest.

The kiss grows deeper, insistent, ferocious, making up for lost time and words that weren’t said. There’s the scrape of teeth against Lee’s bottom lip and he opens his mouth around a pitched groan. The sound only seems to spur Gaara on and he bites at Lee’s lower lip again and again, feral with want, until his mouth is swollen and hypersensitized. 

Gaara’s hands claw through Lee’s hair, pushing it back off his forehead and casting it into disarray, fingernails scraping his scalp like talons. Lee leans his head back to accommodate the pressure, but he gives as good as he gets, anchoring Gaara’s hip with one hand while the other trails down his neck to pop open the first few buttons of his jacket. 

Gaara’s hips are moving against Lee’s with the same rhythm of his body, and Lee’s sweatpants offer little in the way of a buffer between the two of them. Lee breaks the kiss around a gasp, about to suggest they move to more suitable accommodations. 

Then the study door creaks open and Kankuro’s face appears in the gap. 

“Yo, Gaara, have you seen my- ?” 

With a flick of Gaara’s wrist the Zen garden flies across the room and slams the door shut with a cascade of metal filings. 

“No,” Gaara says hoarsely, before Lee can even properly register what he’s just seen. 

“Wow, rude,” comes Kankuro’s muffled voice from behind the door. “I was just gonna try to find that coat to show Lee later. Did he make it home okay by the way?”

“Yes, now go away,” Gaara calls.

“Fine, god you’re tetchy. Don’t take it out on me because you didn’t get to bone down with lover boy last night.” 

There’s a long pause, where Lee almost thinks Kankuro might have left, and begins to relax. 

Then the voice comes back through the door. “By the way, don’t you have that meeting at 6?” 

Gaara curses under his breath in Suna’s coarse dialect. “Yes,” he replies, voice strained. 

“Okay, well, it’s like 5:30. Just thought you’d want to know.”

Gaara utters another curse, then turns to fixate on Lee, still captive beneath him. There’s a high flush on Gaara’s cheeks that makes Lee want nothing more than to pull him back down into another kiss, meeting be damned. 

“I need to take you back to your apartment,” Gaara says in a low voice. “Quickly.”

“I can make it back on my own!” Lee whispers urgently. “I don’t want you to be late for your meeting.” 

Gaara doesn’t entertain the argument. “This will be faster,” he says, sand already flowing out of the gourd and surrounding them. “Close your eyes.”

Lee complies just in time.

* * *

In a wave of sand, they re-emerge in Lee’s tiny apartment. Lee is sprawled on his backside across the floor, still in the position he was sitting in. Gaara crouches next to him, looking marginally more dignified but still worse for wear, his hair tousled and his lips wet and kiss-bitten. 

Lee’s stomach wobbles a bit and he spits out a tiny mouthful of sand, gagging. 

“You could have warned me!” he yells. 

“I told you to close your eyes,” Gaara reminds him. 

“But not my mouth!” Lee scrapes another layer of sand off his tongue and shakes it off his hand. 

Gaara gives him a long look, some ineffable combination of vexation and fondness. 

“I have to go,” he says regretfully. “But I’ll see you tonight.” 

Lee grins. “Yes, tonight.” 

Gaara grabs Lee by the neck and pulls him down into a kiss - soft, lingering, gentle like the pre-dawn light leaking through the windows - then vanishes in a spiral of sand. 

Despite the sleep deprivation, Lee smiles all through his morning routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "salty lemons" Kankuro is talking about are actually [Preserved Lemons](https://www.thespruceeats.com/how-to-make-moroccan-preserved-lemons-2394973), which are traditionally used in Moroccan cooking. 
> 
> Also, I'm taking oneshot prompts over on [my Tumblr @ghoste-catte](https://ghoste-catte.tumblr.com/post/183416606372/prompt-rules), so you should stop by if you'd like me to write something for you.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this chapter took me so long to get together. It has been a hell of a month (and half!). This chapter is a bit longer, so I hope that makes up for things a bit. I'm hoping to get back on a regular posting schedule as we wrap this up.
> 
> Please note the rating change!

Heavy clouds are massing on the eastern horizon by the time Lee arrives at the ambassador’s house. Maki is already there waiting for him, although the creases of her clothing and stiffness of her posture imply she may have never left.

She regards the darkening sky with a grimace, stretching, her back cracking like stone before an avalanche.

“Ever seen a storm in the desert?” she asks him, her voice rough from lack of sleep.

“No,” Lee replies honestly. 

She looks at him unblinking for a moment, her grey eyes pale in comparison to the dark circles under them.

“You’re in for it,” is all she says, before she walks through the sealed gate and into the house.

* * *

Breakfast at the ambassador’s house is a tense affair. 

Lee and Maki exchange wary glances over bowls of what purports to be preserved meat and scrambled eggs. The smell of charcoal and raw albumen hangs in the air. Lee takes a bite; the eggs are somehow simultaneously burnt and underdone, so salty that his tongue stings. 

“I’m still getting the hang of the more traditional Suna recipes,” Haruta blusters, shakily pouring tea into low cups. “Is everything to your liking?”

Maki raises an eyebrow, then picks up a slice of prickly pear fruit and places it in her mouth, chewing so she doesn’t have to respond.

Lee doesn’t have it in him to lie to the man’s face, so instead he offers a toothy smile and a thumbs up, shoveling another large bite into his mouth and chewing enthusiastically. He did not think that anyone’s cooking could be more, well, _nontraditional_ than Gai-sensei’s, but in Haruta-san, his honored teacher could find a worthy adversary. 

Lee is rescued from any further inquiries into the quality of his meal by Utatane and Shirasagi entering the dining room together. There’s a stony silence between the two of them; they pointedly take seats at opposite ends of the table, as far apart from one another as possible. 

Shirasagi meets Maki’s eyes with a terse glare. 

“Sleep well?” Shirasagi rasps.

“Yes,” Maki lies through her teeth. 

“Our home is very well-protected,” Shirasagi says. Her massive lizard, Yamori, trundles up to lay its head on her lap and begins flicking its tongue, as if to reinforce her statement. 

“No lizards at the breakfast table,” Haruta gently reminds his wife, placing a soft kiss on the crown of her turbaned head. He takes his seat at her side, pouring her a cup of tea. 

“Of course, dear,” she says, seemingly placated. She grabs Yamori under his forelegs. She lifts him with surprising ease, considering his size, and deposits him gently on the floor. 

Lee notes with a stab of envy that she is not even offered a bowl of eggs. 

Shirasagi catches his eye.

“I can’t eat anything heavy in the morning,” she says, eyes twinkling. “But my husband loves to entertain. I’m fine with my tea, don’t worry about me.”

Haruta pats her hand affectionately. 

“Poor ‘Sagi gets terrible stomach aches if she eats too much too early,” he says sympathetically.

Internally, Lee wonders if the stomach pains are more due to the food being offered than the fact of her eating at all, but he’s too polite to say anything about it. 

Throughout all the chatter, Utatane has not said a single word, sitting unusually still and silently at the far side of the table. Normally by this time she would have come up with at least two or three complaints: the morning sun being too bright, her tea being too cold, her son waking her too early. Lee eyes her warily for a moment; she’s hardly moved since she first sat down.

Maki seems to have caught on to her charge’s discontent as well.

“Are you all right, Utatane-sama?” she asks with an incline of her head. 

Shirasagi huffs, crossing her arms and looking away. 

Utatane raises her face from her cup to squint at Maki. 

“My sleep was disturbed by an unusual chakra signature by my window,” she says at last. Maki ducks her head, blushing. 

“And another by my door,” Utatane says, her eyes hard and cold as steel. Lee realizes that, prior to this moment, he has never seen her truly angry. Annoyed, yes; irritated, perhaps; but right now she is _enraged_. 

“In fact,” she continues, “there was only one presence I _didn’t_ sense near the house last night.” She looks intently at Lee. “It seems there is only one person among us with any faith whatsoever in my skills or my seals.”

He brings his hand up to cup the back of his neck. He’s not willing to admit that his reasons for not staying to guard the house overnight had little to do with his assurances about Utatane’s skills and much to do with his confidence in Maki’s. Not to mention his fear of Utatane’s reprisal, which, now that he’s seeing it for himself, leaves him confident that he made the right decision. There are also his other, more personal reasons for not remaining outside the ambassador’s house to stand guard, which he most certainly will not be mentioning to any of his present company. 

“Lee,” Utatane says sharply.

He snaps to attention.

“Yes ma’am!” 

“I have a meeting with the council at seven sharp, do I not?” 

Lee has no idea what Utatane’s meeting schedule is, and he knows that she knows this. 

“Yes, ma’am?” he says, a bit more hesitantly. 

She pushes her chair back from the table with a screech. He leaps to his feet, hand coming to his forehead in a salute.

“Let’s be off, then,” Utatane says, making for the door in a rustle of her robes. She does not turn to acknowledge anyone as she leaves. Maki quickly gains her footing and follows Utatane out the door.

“Thank you very much for the delicious breakfast!” Lee calls over his shoulder as he scrambles to follow them both.

* * *

Lee feels awkward the whole morning. He’s not able to shake the feeling that Maki is glaring at him every time he’s not looking at her. Every time he turns back to try to catch her, she’s staring off into the near distance with an air of casualness about her, eyes fixed away from him. That doesn’t mean much, though; she’s terrifyingly quick when she wants to be. 

The tension lingers over their group as Utatane departs her morning meetings for lunch. She bids Lee to walk on her right side and inquires after his appetite: two things she has never done prior to today. 

They sit gathered around the low table in the basement, encased in silence and chill as if in a tomb. None of them lift their eyes from their bowls of rice, eating silently and methodically. 

Lee reaches across the table to refill his cold tea and bumps his cup with his elbow. The dregs of his first cup are promptly upended into his lap. 

“Oh no!” he cries, jumping to his feet. 

Maki and Utatane give him simultaneous judgmental looks, then turn to look at each other. Their eyes glimmer with identical critical mirth. 

Utatane makes a harsh gasping sound that Lee has never heard from her before. It takes him almost a minute to recognize that she’s _laughing_. Her eyes wrinkle shut and begin to fill with tears. 

Maki stares at her in disbelief for a moment, then joins her, her low chuckle joining Utatane’s cackles to echo in the small room. She leans forward until her head nearly touches the table, overcome. Utatane slaps her on the back gleefully. 

“Please excuse me,” Lee says hastily. “I will go tidy myself up.”

The two women hardly acknowledge him as he departs the room, holding onto each other to remain upright between peals of laughter.

* * *

The lower levels of the Kazekage Tower are labyrinthine, as complex and winding as catacombs. Lee finds himself doubling and tripling back past the same few doors, searching for the one that will lead him to the restroom. 

As he’s passing another row of anonymous metal doors, a rope of sand snakes out and grabs him around the waist, hauling him into a side room. A hand comes up to cover his mouth and a barrier of sand blocks his instinctive punch. 

“Gaara?” Lee says, muffled, as the sand closes the door behind him. 

And indeed it is Gaara, dressed in his Kazekage robes, his hair in disarray and his hat nowhere to be found. 

Gaara drops his hand from Lee’s mouth, but Lee hardly has time to form any words before Gaara’s mouth is on his, kissing him fiercely. He crowds Lee up against the door, leaving no space at all between their bodies. The back of Lee’s head impacts the cold surface of the door with the force. 

It’s not a bad kiss, exactly. Gaara’s mouth is warm, his lips deft, his teeth cunningly sharp where they bite at Lee’s lower lip. Gaara’s hands come up to grip at Lee’s shoulders, fingers digging into his flesh. It’s hot, and desperate, and unerringly pleasant. 

But it is a bit jarring, too: a little overwhelming and a little out of place. Lee wraps his hands around Gaara’s waist and pulls him back, just enough for an instant of breath. 

Over Gaara’s shoulder, he sees a long table, a set of nondescript office chairs. They’re in some kind of conference room. Lee supposes it’s fine enough for a lunchtime tryst, for the type of lovers that can only come together under the pretense of work or duty. It’s not exactly the most romantic place, certainly not where Lee pictured himself being kissed when he woke up this morning. 

“Anyone could come in,” Lee gasps. 

Gaara’s mouth wrinkles in distaste.

“Not at this time of day,” he retorts. “Nobody is scheduled to use this room for several hours.” 

Nonetheless, Lee hears the _click_ of the sand turning the lock. It may not be enough to keep out a determined ANBU, if they were concerned that their Kazekage was being manhandled by a foreign jounin, but it will at least stop a well-meaning secretary or janitorial staff from stumbling on them. 

Lee’s stomach sours at the thought of being caught. It sticks between his teeth like old food - the idea that he came _this close_ to being the other person, the covert lover. If Gaara had gone through with his wedding- well, Lee wouldn’t have betrayed Gaara’s wife that way, and Gaara probably would never have entertained the idea of taking such a risk, either, but- 

Lee sighs. Gaara’s hands rub at his shoulders. 

It would have been a difficult choice to make. 

“Better?” Gaara rasps, then leans in to peck at Lee’s mouth again.

Lee can feel Gaara’s _need_ crashing over him like waves, in the heat of his body and the tilt of his head. It’s tempting to let go, to sink into the feeling of being wanted, desired. 

“Yes- “ Lee says, between kisses, “but- “ He gasps a breath, struggling to keep his head above water. “What are you doing here?”

Gaara pulls back just enough to regard him with a sharp, quizzical look that he typically reserves for particularly stupid inquiries. 

“I didn’t want to wait until tonight,” Gaara says, with the air of someone who rarely has to wait to have his demands met at all. “Do you not like this?” he says, concerned, as if just struck by the notion that Lee’s wishes might not perfectly align with his own. 

“No, no, I do!” Lee protests. “It’s very nice, I just- !”

Gaara nods and leans back in to kiss at Lee’s jaw this time, his breath warm and damp at the side of Lee’s face. 

“- don’t you have work to be doing?” Lee concludes. 

Gaara draws back with a huff. He plays with the collar of Lee’s jumpsuit, tugging and straightening it. 

“I do,” Gaara says at last, with no small amount of petulance. “But I’ve been … distracted.”

Lee waits for him to continue, stroking his hands down the side of Gaara’s narrow waist under his robes. He thinks he understands Gaara’s complaint, sidetracked by the heat of his skin even through his jacket and the thin mail shirt he wears under it. Gaara shivers when Lee’s hands graze his ribs.

“I’ve felt your chakra all day,” Gaara begins. He leans in closer again, pulling Lee down by his jacket until Gaara’s face is pressed against the crook of Lee’s neck. Lee can feel the puff of hot breath across the tender junction of his neck and shoulder with every word. “In the halls, under the floorboards, moving from room to room. Every flicker of it.” 

Lee pauses for a moment. He can feel other people’s chakra signatures, too, when he puts his mind to it, but not without effort. Typically, he doesn’t bother trying unless he’s looking for someone. He’s never really thought about what it must be like for those who can sense chakra passively, to be constantly hyperaware of the movements of almost every person in their vicinity. 

Gaara nips at Lee’s earlobe. 

“Your chakra signature is massive, has anyone ever told you that?” he says, the words more heat and vibration than sound. 

“Um, once or twice, maybe?” Lee says. Faintly, he recalls other people reacting with fear and alarm to the presence of his chakra. But at the end of the day, the size of his chakra reserves are more or less meaningless, since he can’t shape them into anything. He almost says as much. 

Gaara laughs low and soft, the vibration of his chest trembling against Lee’s. Lee pulls him closer, runs his hands up and down Gaara’s back. 

“You don’t do anything to contain it,” Gaara breathes. 

“I can’t- “ Lee begins. 

“You’re not suited for stealth at all.”

Lee has to chuckle at the bluntness of that statement, completely charmed and utterly distracted from his earlier musings. He presses a kiss to Gaara’s forehead, right over his scar. Gaara’s hair tickles his nose.

“I know- “ he starts to say, before Gaara surges up to kiss him again. 

Lee lets go. All his anxieties, his worries, his fears, his regrets: they pale in the face of being kissed like this. 

Kissing Gaara feels like the first gasp of air after being underwater. It’s like the first ray of sunlight falling through cracked curtains, sharp-edged and buttery soft. It’s like the first edge of a seedling germinating up over the surface of the soil. It’s like something familiar and something new all at once. 

Lee’s drawn in by Gaara’s clenched fists pulling insistently at the collar of his flak jacket, Gaara’s knee coming up to cage in his hip, Gaara’s soft mouth parted to expose sharp teeth. Gaara sucks Lee’s lower lip into his mouth and Lee’s mouth opens instinctively around a gasp. Gaara’s tongue flicks into Lee’s mouth, licking at his incisors. 

Lee’s hands course down, down Gaara’s back, over his hips, until they’re clutching at the back of Gaara’s thighs. With less effort than it takes him to draw breath, he has Gaara lifted up into the air, spinning their bodies to crash back against the door. Gaara’s ankles lock around Lee’s waist, his hands tugging at Lee’s hair. 

Gaara’s mouth opens around a stuttered groan. Lee kisses desperately at the bow of Gaara’s lips, the corner of his mouth, the crest of his cheekbone, the strained column of his throat. Gaara’s hands in his hair guide him to kiss him everywhere, the insistent press of Gaara’s heel in the small of his back urging him, _more_. If more is what he wants, Lee is happy to give it to him. He sucks a burning kiss into the shadowed hollow of Gaara’s throat. Gaara’s hips rock into his. 

“There’s a storm coming,” Gaara gasps into Lee’s hairline, apropos of nothing. 

Lee gets no further than a drawn breath, his face centimeters from Gaara’s flushed neck. He opens his mouth to ask Gaara if that’s important, somehow, but Gaara is already unfolding his legs and dropping to the ground.

“The lunch hour is almost over,” Gaara says, finger-combing Lee’s hair back into order with cool efficiency. Lee gapes at him for a long moment, his mind still struggling to chug back to life after being forced to a screeching halt. 

“You have tea leaves on the front of your pants,” Gaara says. 

Lee looks down. It appears he has more than one issue he needs to handle in the pants department before he’s remotely suitable to return to work. But before he can deal with that, there’s something he needs to know.

“About tonight, the storm- “ he starts.

Gaara looks up from where he’s pointedly fastening the front of his voluminous robes. He brushes out the front of them, the heavy lines of the fabric rendering his form smooth and shapeless. There’s still a dusting of pink above his collar, the hint of mottled petechiae just below his ear, only noticeable if you know where to look. Lee’s face grows warm. 

“I’ll see you tonight,” Gaara says softly, one hand on Lee’s shoulder. 

In an instant, he’s pulled the door wide and pushed Lee, stumbling and blushing, back into the hall. Behind the door, Lee hears the rushing hiss of Gaara’s Sand Transportation jutsu. 

By the time Lee attends to everything he needs to take care of and returns to the lunch room, the lunch hour is just ending. 

Utatane and Maki look up from where their heads are bowed in conversation; they seem to hardly have noticed that he was gone at all.

* * *

By the end of the day, Lee’s nearly shaking with pent-up excitement. 

It’s hard to focus after being kissed like that, he’s discovered, talk of chakra and storms aside. He spent much of the afternoon trying to track Gaara’s chakra signature around the Kazekage Tower. By and large, it was wholly indetectable to him, but every so often he would catch the barest flicker of it behind a nearby door or passing overhead, like a wink or a blown kiss across a crowded room. He makes space around his heart for the warm feeling it gives him, like the tentative, fragile heat of a lit match. Given time and kindling, he knows he could stoke it into a forest fire. 

Even Utatane’s characteristic grumbling can’t bring him down, walking on air as he is as they make the trek back to the ambassador’s house. Heavy clouds cover half the sky, the air grey and electric.

“- an impasse,” Lee overhears Utatane muttering to Maki. He dutifully attempts to tune them out as he always does; after all, he’s not meant to be involved in the details of Utatane’s discussions with the council. 

He can’t help his ears from pricking up, however, at her mention of a ‘Shinobi Exchange Program’. 

“What would that entail?” Maki asks. 

Lee pretends not to be listening. 

“Just a simple in-kind trade, nothing complicated. A few Suna specialists for a few Konoha specialists, that sort of thing,” Utatane gripes. “But nobody can seem to agree on the terms - ranks, durations, anything. Suna wants taijutsu and genjutsu specialists; we want poisoners and wind users - it shouldn’t be so difficult. But you know how hard-headed…“

Lee’s ears fill with a buzzing, delighted static. His mind races with possibilities. The flame around his heart crackles and sparks.

* * *

It’s inky black outside when Gaara transports himself directly into Lee’s modest living quarters. He’s out of his Kage robes, draped instead in a tan cloak that covers him from shoulder to toe. He doesn’t take the time to utter a greeting, just tosses Lee a ball of thick fabric, heavy and smelling of linseed and wax. 

Lee shakes it out. It’s an oilskin cloak, a perfect match for the one Gaara wears.

“Put that on,” Gaara tells him, and Lee complies. Gaara pulls up his hood, casting his face into shadow. His green eyes glint when he turns to the door.

“Let’s go,” he says. Lee follows him out the door and into the streets.

The streets of Sunagakure are nothing but shade and shadow, thick black clouds obscuring the moon and stars. The streets are empty, the typically busy main thoroughfares as still and silent as catacombs. 

Momentarily, the clouds are pushed back from the moon. In a beam of moonlight, Lee sees the pale skin of Gaara’s hand, glimmering and otherworldly. He seizes it, letting Gaara lead him out past the walls of the village and into the surrounding desert. 

Gaara doesn’t speak, but he turns to look at Lee from time to time. His pupils are dilated; his eyes flash in the dark. Where Lee takes hesitant steps over uneven ground, the sand rushes up under him to steady his gait. Lee breathes through his nose, mimicking Gaara’s silence. 

The air buzzes with ozone and the smell of petrichor. They move quietly past clutches of Joshua trees, their forcipate branches starkly shadowed against the dark grey of the sky. Tall cacti stand like sentries in the distance, their arms extended in warning. The eyeshine of desert creatures dots the landscape like signal flares, mirrors reflecting yellow light in the darkness and vanishing before the pair gets too close. 

They climb a gentle slope, sand sloughing away under Lee’s heavy feet. Gaara treads so lightly, it’s as if he’s walking on air, a wisp of life moving between shadows. When Lee looks behind him at their tracks, he sees only one set of footsteps - his own. Gaara’s narrow hand is cold to the touch, but when Lee squeezes it, Gaara squeezes back. 

Their escarpment overlooks a narrow gully. Impulsively, Lee goes to jump into it to explore, struck by some wild whim. Sand catches him around the waist and yanks him, kicking, back onto high ground.

“Stay here,” Gaara says. 

“Why?” Lee asks.

Gaara doesn’t answer. 

He falls still. 

He takes a sudden, deep breath, tilting his head back. 

The hood of Gaara’s cloak falls away from his face at the same time as the wind pushes the clouds past the moon. Gaara is lit up in white, his skin shimmering. The sharp angle of his jaw casts shadows onto his throat. His eyes are almost blue in this light, like unpolished lapis lazuli inlaid in their darkened hollows. Lee’s breath stops in his throat at the sight of him. 

“There,” Gaara says. 

Lee looks up just as the sky opens and rain starts to fall. 

It’s nothing like rain in Konoha. It doesn’t start as a misting sprinkle, the air warm with sparkling dew. It’s a downpour, curtains of pelting rain that strike the ground with the force of a fist meeting stone. The sand around their feet puckers into pockets of damp, rivulets sweep the ground in unpredictable, branching patterns. 

Lee’s mouth opens unbidden and he laughs, wild and unrestrained. He whoops out loud without even thinking about it. He feels boundless, swept up in the fury of the storm. 

Gaara brings Lee back with a nudge to the shoulder, gesturing to the gully where he tried to stand. 

The gully is already full of rushing water, coursing past as quickly and as steadily as the rapids ahead of a waterfall. 

“The arroyos are prone to flash-flooding,” Gaara says, barely audible over the force of the downpour. He grips Lee’s hand again and pulls him closer, defensive. Locks of wet hair stick to his forehead, dark and curling like rivulets of blood. Water trails like tear tracks down his face. 

“This storm is unseasonably late,” Gaara says, shouldering in closer to Lee. The slick fabric of their waxy cloaks squeaks against each other. Gaara pulls Lee’s arm around him, until his face is centimeters away, looking up at Lee. “Most storms happen in the winter, during the wet season.”

Lee looks down at Gaara’s face, the damp partition of his mouth, the pale span of his forehead, the raised red skin of his scar almost purple in the half-light. Gaara tilts his chin up, inching closer to Lee’s mouth. He licks his lips. 

Something sour sticks in Lee’s throat. 

“Gaara,” he says, over the roaring of the rain. “Why didn’t you tell me you were getting married?”

Gaara’s expression crumples instantly. A furrow forms between his eyes. 

There’s a rushing sound, louder than the rain or the river barreling past them. Suddenly, the moon is extinguished. The sky goes black. 

Lee reaches out with the hand that isn’t clasped around Gaara’s shoulder and finds the slick grit of wet sand. They’re inside one of Gaara’s sand domes. The air within is chilled, colder than the storm outside. 

Gaara is still pressed against Lee, and Lee against him. The boundaries between their bodies vanish in the dark. They breathe together, moving like one organism. The rain drums on the roof, muted but thunderous, vibrating their temporary shelter. Lee cups Gaara’s face. He can feel the tension in Gaara’s jaw. 

“Gaara?” Lee whispers. He’s unsure if Gaara can hear him over the pounding of the rain.

“It would have hurt you,” Gaara says lowly. His hand tenses on Lee’s cloak, crumpling the damp fabric over his heart. Lee can feel Gaara’s breath on the side of his face, stuttering and uneven. 

Lee rubs at Gaara’s shoulder through his cloak, a quiet gesture of reassurance. 

“I saw the expression on your face when I called Hakuto my betrothed. That was pain. I don’t want to be the cause of your pain, anymore.”

Outside their shelter, thunder cracks, shaking the ground and the air around them. Gaara’s shoulders tremble. 

“What would you have done if she had not tried to run away?” The rain falls harder. Lee raises his voice to be heard over it. “When would you have told me?”

“I- “ Gaara starts to say, then falls silent. The click of his jaw is as audible as a femur snapping. He rests his forehead against Lee’s collarbone. He shakes his head, the rocking motion of his forehead grinding against the bone of Lee’s clavicle, just the right amount of painful. 

“Would I have had to wait for the official announcement of your wedding?” Lee presses, his mouth against Gaara’s ear. 

“I … don’t know,” Gaara admits, mouthing the words more than saying them. “I hoped, somehow, you would have still- “

“I wouldn’t have,” Lee cuts him off.

“I know,” Gaara says. “It was a reckless fantasy.”

“Last night, when we talked about communication... “ Lee moves in closer, his hands slipping up Gaara’s back, embracing him fully. Gaara tucks his face into Lee’s neck. “That’s the sort of thing I mean. I don’t need to know every secret, classified thing that happens here, but I do need to know what’s happening with _you_.” 

Gaara just nods, his face damp against Lee’s throat, with rain or tears, Lee can’t be sure. 

“I failed to consider your feelings. I was selfish,” Gaara murmurs. “I’m sorry.” 

“I owe you an apology too, you know,” Lee says back. 

Gaara draws back just hair. Lee can’t see his face, but he can picture the skeptical expression on it.

“I waited too long to tell you how I felt,” Lee confesses. “I was uncertain, and scared. I hesitated.”

“I’ve never known you to hesitate about anything,” Gaara says bluntly.

“Well, this is very new,” Lee replies, “for both of us.”

“Yes,” Gaara affirms.

“We’ll learn together, though,” Lee says firmly. “I’m certain that with the hot-blooded passion and spirit of our youth we can overcome any obstacle!” He clenches his fist, passionate tears welling up in his eyes. “Together, we can- “

Gaara flicks his wrist, and one side of the sand dome falls away. The sound of rain floods the enclosure, shutting Lee up as effectively as a hand over the mouth. 

Lee looks to his left; the open side of their shelter is a curtain of falling rain. It’s a bit like being behind a waterfall. The moon through the water shimmers, casting their faces in an unearthly, mottled glow. Lee forgets to breathe for a moment. 

Water sloughs down away from the hillside atop which they stand, carrying sand down into the roaring gully below. The ground beneath them is no less saturated. 

With a clench of his fist, Gaara raises the floor of their shelter, condensing the substrate and wicking the rain away. In an instant, they stand on a small, hovering platform of dry sand, still sheltered from above by the roof of the dome. 

“Sit,” Gaara commands. He pulls Lee down by his hand until they’re sitting side-by-side. 

Lee looks out over the desert. Truth be told, there isn’t much to see: the glassy panel of rain blocks most of the view. In the spaces between the rain he can see glimpses of moonlight, the sandstone structures that make up the desert plateau slick and shining. 

Tentatively, he rests his head on Gaara’s shoulder. He breathes slowly. Gaara’s hand snakes up beneath his cloak to rub his back. A drop of rain falls from the tip of Gaara’s wet hair and wends its way down the side of Lee’s face. The rain beats its steady tattoo on the roof above, rhythmic and soothing. 

Lee feels his eyes growing heavy. It’s been over twenty-four hours since he last slept. _What’s the harm,_ he thinks, between one long blink and the next, _in closing my eyes for just a moment?_ He’s barely aware when he falls asleep, Gaara’s long fingers carding through his hair, a tuneless lullaby carried from his throat on the wind.

* * *

Lee awakes to his head in Gaara’s lap and Gaara whispering his name. The stroking of his fingers is no less calming, still unceasingly running through Lee’s hair. The angle of the moon has not changed much; he can’t have slept for long. Gaara’s humming, wordless and amelodic, has stopped, but the rain beats on just as heavily as before. 

“I should take you back,” Gaara murmurs. “You’re overtired.” 

Lee struggles upright. He opens his mouth to try to raise a protest. He’s overtaken by a yawn. 

Gaara meets his eye with a dubious stare. Lee blushes, hoping the night is too dark for Gaara to see it. 

Gaara pulls Lee’s hood up from where it’s fallen around his shoulders. The gesture is a bit fussy, proprietary in a way that makes Lee’s heart beat off-rhythm. Gaara’s fingers catch the side of Lee’s face as he adjusts the fabric. His fingers are so soft. Gaara pulls his own hood up much more perfunctorily. His hair is soaked and dripping enough to render the motion almost meaningless. 

The walk through the desert and back to the efficiency apartment is silent but for the pounding of the rain, lightening to a drizzling sputter by the time they ascend the staircase to Lee’s room. Gaara’s hand doesn’t leave the small of Lee’s back even as he toes off his shoes in the entranceway. 

Gaara takes Lee’s cloak from him, unrolling the futon with small, sure motions while Lee clumsily changes into his nightclothes. He settles Lee into bed, pulling the blanket up over him and tucking it in around his body. He presses a kiss to each eyelid while Lee blinks heavy.

“Tomorrow night will be our last night together,” Gaara whispers in the stillness of the small, dark room. “I want you to be awake for it.”

Gaara stands to leave, the moonlight coruscant on his damp hair. The hem of his oilskin cloak sweeps around him.

Lee seizes the hem of his thin linen pants. 

“Where are you going?” he asks. 

“Home,” Gaara replies, “to let you sleep.” 

Lee tugs at him more insistently, until Gaara drops into a crouch at his side. 

“Will you sleep there?” he asks. 

“No,” Gaara says honestly. “Not tonight, not with the desert unsettled like this.” 

Lee takes his hand, pulls him closer, until Gaara is sitting with a hand on the edge of his futon. 

“Then stay,” Lee insists, “with me.” He pauses. “Please,” he adds. 

Gaara merely nods, settling with his back against the wall and pulling Lee’s head to rest in his lap again. His fingers return to Lee’s damp hair. 

The last thing Lee hears before darkness overtakes him is that same atonal, faltering lullaby hummed in Gaara’s rough voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story now has art!! 
> 
> [ManaBanana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/manabanana), who is one of our little pairing's most talented and productive writers, is also an incredibly talented artist!! (Unfair, I know!) She drew this absolutely beautiful illustration of the scene from Gaara's greenhouse in Chapter 6. [Click here to see it on Tumblr!](https://missdetache.tumblr.com/post/184416075957/sketch-request-aaaahyour-art-is-so-nice)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! This one got done pretty fast! We're in the home stretch here, folks. Hope you enjoy!

Lee wakes up before dawn, his head still pillowed in Gaara’s lap. 

Overnight, Gaara’s posture has relaxed. He’s slumped down against the wall, shoulders low and free of tension. Lee studies Gaara’s fine features, his face luminous in the pale, pre-dawn light. He tries to keep his breathing steady, giving no indication he has awoken. He wants to watch Gaara for just a few more moments. 

It would be no hardship, he thinks, to wake up like this every morning. His heart trips and stutters over the fantasy of an infinitude of mornings where he wakes up with Gaara so close: warm skin behind his head, warm hands in his hair. If he closes his eyes again, he can picture thousands more mornings just like this one spiralling out in front of him. He can picture waking up every morning, face-to-face with his most precious person in his bed. In _their_ bed, in their shared home, not on some pallet on the floor of his temporary lodgings. 

He clenches his eyes shut. Tonight is their last night.

And after that, who knows how long it will be until- 

Lee feels a moist puff of air on his nose. 

He opens his eyes. Gaara’s face is hovering over his, looking down at him with his eyes wide and credulous. 

Gaara leans down to kiss him, his plush lower lip slotting naturally between Lee’s. Lee resists the urge to bite it. Their breaths are both a little stale, but Lee doesn’t mind in the least. Gaara’s finger strokes the shell of Lee’s ear.

“You were talking in your sleep,” he says casually. 

Lee’s face scalds. 

“What did I say?” 

“Nothing of consequence,” Gaara replies with a half-smile. 

In that moment, he’s so beautiful that Lee almost stops breathing. His face is half in shadow, his red hair dark and toneless in the cool blue light creeping through the window. Gaara has eyes like a cat’s; Lee can see right through the pale green irises, can see the dark green pits of his pupils soaking up the light. Lee looks at him, and _aches_. 

Gaara’s brow furrows - Lee has been staring for too long - and Lee stumbles until he finds words to speak.

“Did you sleep?” Lee asks him. 

“A little,” Gaara admits, and Lee’s heart swells, beating off kilter. “You’re very warm.”

Lee reaches up and strokes Gaara’s cheek. Gaara turns into the gesture and kisses his palm. Lee’s heart feels like it’s crystallizing, like this whole morning is a scene from a pop-up picture book - a diorama of the two of them together. Lee wants to live in it forever. 

“We should get up,” Gaara says with reluctant urgency. 

Lee groans internally, loath to disrupt the still clarity of this moment, but he tries not to let it show on his face. 

“Okay,” he says. He stands slowly, but not before pulling Gaara down for one last, lingering kiss.

* * *

“What is the name of that song you were singing last night?” Lee asks, while he prepares them cups of coffee and bowls of rice with egg. Simple fare, but fortifying, and it’s all he has. Gaara takes a mug of coffee and cups it in both hands, inhaling the steam. The face Gaara makes, satisfied and serene, alleviates all of Lee’s guilt at the meagerness of his offering. 

“I don’t know if it has a name,” Gaara says between slow sips of strong coffee. “It’s from my mother’s clan.”

“Oh,” Lee says quietly. “Did she used to sing it to you?”

Gaara looks at him over the rim of his mug. “If she did, I don’t remember it.”

 _Stupid,_ Lee internally curses himself. _Gaara’s mother died after childbirth, you knew this._

“Temari used to hum it sometimes, though,” Gaara continues, nonplussed. “Before everything.”

That _everything_ settles like a weight in Lee’s stomach. In quiet moments like these, when Gaara holds himself with impeccable stillness, when he smiles at Lee and takes all the breath from his lungs, it’s easy to forget how difficult Gaara’s life has been up to this point. How much he’s overcome, and how much work he still has left to do. 

Lee isn’t sure what to say, so he pushes Gaara’s hair behind his ear instead. His ear is pale, pink inside like a seashell, as if it’s never seen the desert sun. Lee supposes that for years it didn’t, Gaara wearing that sand armor everywhere like a shroud. Right now, though, his skin is uncovered, smooth to the touch. Lee relishes in it. 

There’s only one chair at the table so they make do on the floor, sitting on Lee’s futon with their legs overlapping, backs to the wall. Their elbows jostle as they move their food to their mouths. The room is still but for the clacking of chopsticks and the sipping of coffee. 

Gaara sets his empty bowl on the cold stone floor with a clatter. He leans against Lee, his head on Lee’s shoulder. His coarse hair tickles Lee’s jaw and ear. 

“The council is proposing the establishment of a shinobi exchange program,” Gaara says, “between Suna and Konoha.”

Lee grins, sipping the last dregs of his coffee. His heart trembles hopefully, like a butterfly’s wet wings first emerging from a cocoon.

“You shouldn’t have heard about it yet,” Gaara adds, a bit slyly. 

Lee’s neck colors. 

“Utatane-sama and Maki-san are … very close,” he says. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but-”

Gaara’s low chuckle cuts him off. 

“You’ll be in the meeting room this morning when the proposal is finalized,” he says. “It should be formally announced before you leave. It will still be some time before the transfers start to happen, maybe not until the fall, but...”

He looks up at Lee, his green eyes as clear as polished sea glass. 

“Suna will be requesting taijutsu specialists,” he murmurs. The gap between his lips looks impossibly soft, a dark hollow of desirable shadow. “You should apply.”

The wings in Lee’s chest unfurl and begin to beat. 

“Would you want me to?” he whispers.

“I would approve your application immediately,” Gaara replies. 

Never before has the discussion of bureaucracy and paperwork stirred Lee’s heart, but right now he finds himself dizzy, weightless with the thought of filling out the mission request form and sending it off to be stamped. 

“I’ll apply as soon as possible,” he breathes. 

He seals his promise with a kiss.

* * *

The meetings that day are held in Suna’s large council room. The council sits gathered at the large round table, extra chairs brought in to accommodate Utatane and a few other relevant dignitaries. Gaara sits at the head of it all, his back to the far wall of the room where the statues of the former Kazekage loom. 

Maki and Lee, along with the scattered guards of the various other participants, including Kankuro, stand around the perimeter of the room with their backs against the walls. Each of them assumes the same stiff posture, rigid with formality, arms clasped firmly behind their backs. 

Lee’s eyes linger on Gaara. He looks little different than he did this morning - after a short, sand-assisted trip home to change into his Kage robes, his hair freshly washed and parted - but his demeanor is completely changed. Gone is the tender, gentle man who stroked Lee’s hair and drank coffee on his apartment floor, replaced by someone all cold steel and harsh lines. 

Lee has seen Gaara destroy entire swathes of enemy troops. He has seen him raise and fell landforms. He has seen him transform a forest into a field of sand. But this, he thinks, _this_ is Gaara’s true power: the ability to command the attention of the entire room just by opening his mouth.

Gaara charters the meeting with a ruthless efficiency. The bickering between the various factions of the council is struck down by the graceful motion of a single one of Gaara’s finely boned hands or the skeptical lift of his chin. When one aged council member raises her voice in objection to some minor point of the agreement, the pursing of Gaara’s lips silences her immediately. A single sharp flash of his eyes interrupts a rambling monologue.

Utatane huffs and grumbles, but even she is compelled into agreement when Gaara interrupts her griping with a skillfully chosen phrase, expertly honed like a weapon that stabs to the heart of the discussion. 

Despite the brutal efficacy with which he commands the assembled shinobi (and the cowed reactions of the Council), there is no semblance of the old, feral Gaara in his actions. Everything he does is carefully controlled, composed, skillfully fashioned and then wielded. This is Gaara, the diplomat - truly in his element, a shinobi’s shinobi - one-hundred-percent the warrior and commander he was born to be. He fits into his role like fingers fit into the grooves of the handle of a well-worn kunai. 

Lee watches him with his heart in his throat, attention rapt. He hardly hears the discussion, drawn in by the subtle gestures of his hand, the knowing tilt of his head, the cautious yet decisive way he propels the agenda forward.

Under Gaara’s purview, the meeting concludes earlier than scheduled. 

As the gathered Council and guests take their feet with a cracking of backs and shuffling of papers, Gaara looks up from the table and catches Lee’s eye. It’s no more than half a second, but there it is: the sweetness of that morning in twitch of Gaara’s mouth, a smile hidden behind his eyes. 

Lee’s heart pounds. His knuckles turn white from clenching his fingers against each other.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kankuro shaking his head ruefully.

* * *

In the evening, Utatane brushes them off, cautioning them to sleep well and be rested for the journey back to Konoha the following day. She gives Maki a particularly sharp look as she says this. Lee suspects Maki slept little the previous night, probably still hiding out by Utatane’s window on the watch for assassins.

Suna’s been so quiet the past two days that it’s difficult to remember that a looming threat still lingers over Utatane’s head. But her seals are strong, she assures them, and Yamori will sleep outside her bedroom door to keep watch. The real risk will come once they leave Suna’s well-guarded walls tomorrow afternoon, and begin making their way as a trio back towards Konoha. 

Once they hit the desert plains, she’ll be in the most danger, with just the two of them (and later Lee alone) to guard her. 

The sun is low, but not quite set - the sky still light with the clouds of the previous day long blown away, so Lee decides he will spend the evening training. He has been remiss in his exercise during this trip, ever since the day Gaara came and chastised him for shouting his kiai too loudly. He has a lot of work to catch up on; if Gai-sensei knew how long he’d gone without doing his kick-punches, he’d probably catapult him clear across the training field. 

Lee clenches his fist in determination and sets about a punishing routine - first press-ups, then jumping jacks, then kata. He’s still reluctant to exert any force against the mediocre training posts in the yard of his apartment building, so instead he gets out his nunchaku and practices a few of his more elaborate forms. The space is small, but that’s nothing more than an opportunity to get creative. 

Though the light has mostly dwindled away, the heat of the day still lingers in the air and the ground around him, and Lee finds himself sweating. He strips his jumpsuit down to his waist and takes a long pull of water from the communal spigot. Wiping his mouth with one bandaged arm, he takes a look up at the sky, where stars are just starting to peek out from the dark blue curtain of the heavens.

The sky looks different here, further to the south, the stars misplaced and unfamiliar. Still, before the moon rises, he can make out the Milky Way - a half-lit halo of speckled light. 

There’s a rustling noise behind him, and then arms around his waist and a sharp chin on his shoulder. 

“Looking for your star?” Gaara asks lowly against his ear. 

“My star?” Lee says. 

“Altair,” Gaara says. “You won’t be able to see it yet, but it’s just there.” He points to somewhere distant on the horizon, covered by the domed roofs of low buildings. “It’s visible year-round here, down by the horizon. It doesn’t rise or set; it’s a constant presence in our skies.” 

Gaara shifts against him, every button of his jacket pressed into Lee’s spine. All of a sudden, Lee feels the chill in the air. Gaara’s arms across his ribs burn through him. 

“As for Vega,” Gaara says, “your princess, you won’t see that one here. It barely ever rises in the South, even in midsummer.”

Lee leans back into Gaara; Gaara takes his weight.

“They’ll have to wait until summer in Konoha to meet again,” Gaara murmurs. “At your festival.”

Lee huffs air through his mouth until his bangs flutter up and settle back on his sticky forehead. For some reason, this explanation dissatisfies him. His skin grows clammy in the cold night air. 

“I want to take you out into the desert again,” Gaara says, smoothing the goosebumps on Lee’s bare upper arms. “I have something to show you.”

Lee nods, and leads Gaara upstairs to his sparse apartment. 

Gaara waits patiently by the door while Lee towels the sweat off his body, then shoulders into Kankuro’s too-large coat. 

As Lee locks the door behind him, Gaara takes his hand.

They set off into the desert, hand-in-hand, Gaara leading the way.

* * *

They’re about halfway to their destination when Lee recognizes the path as the same one they trod the night before, up the gently sloping hill over the bed of arroyos. The desert looks different under the cloudless moonlight, starkly lit and otherworldly, all black and white with no shades of gray in between. The path in front of Lee is clear and glittering with sand; he doesn’t need Gaara’s help to navigate, but he lets Gaara lead him all the same. 

Gaara’s hands are warm, tonight, burning with life. He keeps turning around to look at Lee, as if to check and see that he’s still there - that he hasn’t been replaced by some mischievous desert spirit. Every time he turns and meets Lee’s eye, he flashes him a small and secret smile. 

Lee beams back, angling his jaw so his teeth catch the light of the moon. 

As they start the last leg of their slow ascent, Gaara starts to mutter under his breath.

“I want it to be a surprise,” he says, not even really speaking to Lee. 

“I saw it last night, though.” Lee’s eyebrows meet in the middle, puzzled.

“Not like this.”

Lee pauses, pondering.

“I can close my eyes?” he offers. 

Gaara nods. 

“Yes,” he says, “that will work.”

“Don’t let me fall,” Lee warns him as he lets his eyes fall shut.

“I won’t.”

Suddenly, the sand shifts under him, rising up like a wave. Lee stumbles and almost opens his eyes in alarm, but he keeps them closed, trusting Gaara to keep him safe. The sand stabilizes his ankles and holds him fast, buffeting him and Gaara up the hill. Gaara’s hand presses at the small of Lee’s back, comforting. 

As quickly as it started, the sand falls away, depositing them on the same rocky outcropping from the night before. Lee finds himself swaying slightly, aware of the drop just ahead of him even with his eyes closed. Wind whistles eerily through the gullies below. 

“You can open your eyes,” Gaara says from far too close. 

Lee does, and he can’t hold back a gasp. 

Spread out below them, where last night there was nothing but clumps of scrub brush and rushing streams of water, is a thicket of flowers. They stretch out in every direction, dotting the landscape in pointed starbursts of pure white, glowing under the moonlight, haloing the desert. On the air, Lee catches the sweet scent of nectar.

“Do you want to take a closer look?” 

With a flick of his wrist, Gaara raises them up on a platform of sand, until they hover over the gorge.

“Is it safe?” Lee asks hesitantly, recalling Gaara’s warning from the night before.

“The rain is long gone,” Gaara replies, lowering them into the arroyo. “It’s perfectly safe.”

On solid ground, Gaara leads Lee over to the closest thatch of flowers. There are hundreds of them, expanding out into the near distance, transforming the desert from a barren plain into a pointillist’s vision of a galaxy. 

Gaara gently cups a flower in both hands. The blossom is large, about the span of his palm, rounded out with multilayered pinnate petals. In the center are thickly clustered filaments, their anthers heavy with pollen.

“Careful,” Lee warns, “that stem looks sharp.”

Gaara holds up one hand; flecks of sand fall away from his palm.

“It’s a cactus,” he says bluntly, but the line of his mouth is soft. “Of course it’s sharp.”

“Oh,” Lee says dumbly. 

Gaara plucks the flower from its stem with a quiet _snap_ and holds it out to Lee like an offering. 

Lee hesitates before he takes it, cradling it in his rough and bandaged palms. Gaara’s hands brush his as he pulls away, his palms powdery with pollen, glittering in the moonlight. 

“Won’t it die?” Lee asks.

“It would have died anyway,” Gaara says. “This is the Queen of the Desert, night blooming cereus. Its flowers bloom for just one night per year. It will wither under the day’s sun.”

“Just like the morning glories,” Lee says. 

Gaara hums. “A little. That’s why I thought you’d want to see them.” He nudges Lee’s wrist up towards his nose. “Can you smell it?”

Lee inhales. The fragrance of the flower floods his nose, sweet and tender.

“Yes.”

Gaara closes his eyes, an expression of tempered pleasure cutting across his lips. His nostrils flare. 

“Not everyone can,” he says, still not opening his eyes. “Tell me what it smells like.”

Lee sniffs again, pulling the flower closer to his face. 

“It’s strong,” he starts. “It smells like fruit, but not any fruit I’ve ever had before. And- “ He presses his face to the anthers, pollen prickling his nose. “- vanilla?”

Gaara hums again, voice low, swaying in towards Lee like a sleepwalker. When he opens his eyes, they shine with the clarity of cut gemstone. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

Lee smiles back at him.

“Any time.”

Gaara plucks the flower back from Lee’s hand and strips the thorns from the stem with sand-covered fingers. He reaches up and tucks the flower behind Lee’s ear, brushing his hair out of the way as he does so. Pollen sprinkles the bridge of Lee’s nose like freckles on sun-kissed skin.

Gaara leans back and regards his handiwork. He nods once, definitively, then takes Lee’s hand and turns to walk further into the desert. 

“It seems like a waste, doesn’t it?” Lee says, dogging Gaara’s footsteps. “Those flowers are so beautiful, but hardly anyone will ever get to see them.”

“Some things are more beautiful for their rarity,” Gaara says without turning around. The night breeze picks up his words and carries them off. “The flowers serve their purpose, anyway. The wind and insects will carry their pollen away, to fertilize more plants. And when the flowers’ petals fall, an edible fruit is left in their place. Their death brings more life.”

“That’s profound,” Lee says.

“It’s simple biology,” Gaara replies.

While they’ve been walking, the thatches of deerhorn cactus and beds of sand have thinned and given way to vast stretches of sandstone. Lee realizes, belatedly, that they’re standing atop a mesa. 

Gaara waves him to the edge of the cliff and Lee draws up short. Below is a field of wildflowers even more astonishing than the patch of cereus: blooms of every size and color - clusters of thick blossoms in radiant orange, delicate stems specked in pale blues, sunburst yellows atop coarse green stems. They cluster in patches and sprawl out on the low earth, shouldering over each other in their abundance. Moonlight flashes off the shiny backs of insects, industriously drifting from sepal to stamen, casting the scene in a haze of flickering light.

Lee has to blink to be sure it’s not a mirage, some trick of the desert night. 

“Where did they all come from?” Lee breathes.

“It’s a superbloom,” Gaara explains. “Enough rain over winter, cold nights, one good spring rain, and then… “ Gaara gestures expansively with his arms. “... there’s this. The conditions have to be just right for it, we only get one every ten years or so.” He leans against Lee, shoulders bumping. “You’re lucky to see it. It’s auspicious, a good omen.”

“A good omen for what?”

Gaara’s lips thin as he surveys the land below.

“Many things. Fresh beginnings. Ample harvest. Fertility. New love.” He squeezes Lee’s hand, then with a quick maneuver of his feet, skids down the side of the mesa, kicking up great clouds of dust behind him. Lee throws caution to the wind and leaps after him, laughing. 

They land together on a pillowy patch of sand. Gaara meets Lee’s eyes with a mischievous grin and tugs him off into the wildflowers. 

Down here, in among the greenery, Gaara is childlike in his enthusiasm, his eyes flashing with a strange and infectious light. He drags Lee, still laughing, through clusters of plants, rattling off their secrets and their uses. 

He introduces Lee to plants that can heal: the pentagonal cups of orange globe mallow, brewed into a strong tea that can cure cough; plush, warm-hued blossoms of poppy, whose seeds make a potent analgesic; delicate clusters of white dogbane, whose stems when snapped ooze a milky sap used to reduce fever. He teaches Lee about the desert’s hidden sources of life: the thick pads of _opuntia_ , with their round, yellow blossoms, whose bodies can be sliced, cooked, and eaten; and the secret water stores of the fishhook barrel cactus, with its spiny red and golden petals. He cautions Lee on the flowers that can kill, too: the lavender-tinted trumpets of poisonous datura, rife with deadly alkaloids; the yellow flutes of potent tree tobacco, whose poison can beguile the senses, causing a man to see and hear things that aren’t there; the deceptively inviting purple petals of solanine-dense silverleaf nightshade, which cause crippling illness when their fruits are ingested. 

The desert, it seems, takes just as much as it gives.

When they start to tire, Gaara bids Lee to sit on the ground in a small patch of clear land. He sits down between Lee’s spread legs, scooting backwards until Lee surrounds him, Lee’s chest to his back. Even still, he points out the plants that catch his eye. 

Gaara is truly in his element, here, surrounded by the plants he loves. More than when Lee has watched him fight with his sand as if it were an extension of his body, more even than his capable control over the council’s meeting: here he’s filled with the quiet confidence of knowledge and true passion. It stirs Lee’s heart to see him lit up from within in this way, burning with love for the land around him like a brazier. 

Lee wraps his arms around Gaara’s waist. He would gladly listen to Gaara prattle on about plants for the rest of his life, if it meant getting to see him this comfortable always. 

“Most of these flowers aren’t given a meaning in your book,” Gaara says, after a time. “But there are a few.” He points to a bright, sunshine-yellow flower with a brown center, its heavy head drooping on its stem. “Evening primrose, for desperation.” He gestures to a swathe of pale pink flowers dotting stretches of creeping vines. “Sand verbena, for cooperation.” Finally, he plucks a butterscotch-yellow flower, its petals oblong rays surrounding a golden disk. He leans back and tucks it behind Lee’s ear, right next to the cereus flower, now wilting slightly from the heat of Lee’s temple. “Desert sunflower, for respect.” He pauses. “And passionate love.”

Lee’s heart stops beating, then starts again, thrumming warm and hopeful and desiring all at once. He studies Gaara’s face, all the harshness of his features occluded, smoothed away with his gentle smile and the soft moonlight. He inhales the spicy smell of Gaara’s hair, feels the press of the ropy muscles of Gaara’s back against his chest, peruses the strokes of the scar on his forehead, dark as a bloodstain. 

“Love?” Lee asks, as quietly as he knows how.

“Yes,” Gaara says, without hesitation. 

It’s hardly a decision at all, to kiss Gaara then, to reach down and seek Gaara’s mouth with his own lips. To close the space between them with all the passion and heartfelt feelings now consuming him. Lee feels as if his chest would burst, as if a desert sunflower and night-blooming cereus were blossoming inside his heart at the same time. 

Gaara rolls to face him instantly, clambering up on his knees and cupping Lee’s face between his hands. He kisses like a man dying of thirst inches away from water. He kisses like this is the first and last kiss he’ll ever have. He kisses like when the sun rises tomorrow, Lee will have to leave him. 

Lee kisses Gaara with an intensity that matches the size of the feelings within him (which is to say, quite a lot of intensity indeed). His tongue parts Gaara’s lips; Gaara rocks forward to meet him in turn, wet lips sliding slick against Lee’s. Lee’s hands clasp at Gaara’s shoulders, pull him close until they’re completely pressed against each other. 

Gaara’s fingers sliding into Lee’s hair knock the flowers astray. He pushes forward even further into Lee’s space, until Lee’s falling back to the ground on his elbows, carefully angling his body so as not to crush the flowers now littering the sand. His body crawls on top of Lee’s, his hips between Lee’s spread legs. Gaara’s hands form claws in Lee’s hair. The sharp, lemongrass scent of verbena fills the air. 

Something in Lee tells him he should slow down, that he’s being impulsive here, following his heart and not his head. But something else tells him to keep going, to chase that spark of passion and stoke it into a raging flame, and that something tells him that this has been a long time coming - a slow simmer finally coming to a rolling boil, crackling coals finally bursting into heat and light. 

Gaara pants into Lee’s mouth. His hips press insistently against Lee’s. Lee rocks back up against him in turn, the sandy ground coarse against his back. Gaara weighs almost nothing - as ephemeral as a will o’ wisp atop him - but the shape of him is wanting, and oh, Lee _wants_ , too. 

Lee’s hands slide down Gaara’s back to cup at his backside, urging him forward. Gaara shifts at just the right angle; sparks flash behind Lee’s eyes. Gaara bites Lee’s lower lip and makes a wordless sound that vibrates down Lee’s throat and into his ribcage, sets his heart inexorably trembling.

 _I did that,_ Lee thinks giddily, half-delirious and oxygen starved, Gaara not giving him space to draw breath. _I made him make that noise._

Lee redoubles his efforts, holding Gaara firmly but tenderly, moving their bodies against each other until Gaara makes that sound again, then a third time. Lee is full of fire and light; it cascades through him with every graze of Gaara’s skin against his, every damp smack of Gaara’s mouth on his lips, every trickle of sweat and heave of his chest. Lee sucks Gaara’s lower lip into his mouth and Gaara hisses a curse - a filthy sound, all consonants and sibilance. 

Gaara breaks their kiss to pant wetly against Lee’s ear. His body trembles. His face and neck are splotchy and red. 

“Come home with me,” he exhales. “Spend the night.” He punctuates his request with a roll of his hips that sends Lee spiraling out of his body and into the starry night sky.

When he comes back to earth, he has to catch his breath before he can respond.

“Okay,” he says. 

It’s for the best that Gaara suggested it when he did, Lee thinks. He had been more than ready to do whatever Gaara wanted, even if that meant stripping down on the bare earth under the open sky. 

Instead, Gaara takes his feet with leonine grace, noticeably adjusting the front of his pants once he’s standing. There’s a brief surge of chakra, Gaara’s hair flutters, and then he exhales, his face no longer stained pink. Gaara looks down at Lee. He licks his lips, then extends a hand to haul Lee to his feet with a strength belied by his small frame. 

Gaara takes his time straightening Lee’s hair and clothes, spending perhaps a moment too long brushing the sand from the front of Lee's trousers. Lee chokes back a groan and catches Gaara biting the corner of his own lip, expression wicked. His eyes flick up to meet Lee’s, bright and curious, before a strand of sand deposits the flowers back behind Lee’s ear. 

Gaara wraps his arms around Lee’s waist. He rests his head on Lee’s shoulder and speaks into his ear in a voiceless hush. 

“When I said spend the night,” he says, “I didn’t mean to sleep.”

Lee bites back a laugh.

“I know,” he says warmly.

“Good,” Gaara replies. “I wanted to be sure I was clear. Now close your eyes.”

As the sand comes up to cover them, Lee hears someone in the far distance shout.

* * *

“What was that noise?” Lee says in Gaara’s bedroom once the sand has cleared. 

Gaara pushes him down to splay atop thin sheets, making quick work of his vest and the top of his jumpsuit. The room is dark, lit only by the faint haze of streetlights far from the curtained window. Lee can barely make out the intent expression on Gaara’s face, his features little more than hints of form. 

“My ANBU,” Gaara replies simply. He moves to pluck the bandages from around Lee’s fingers. “They hate when I use the Sand Transportation jutsu; they can’t keep up.”

Lee blanches. His face heats and his fingers go numb. 

“They were there the whole time?” 

Gaara nods, not looking up from where he’s unspooling Lee’s bandages onto the floor. The noise of the fabric hitting the ground is unexpectedly loud. 

“Of course,” he replies. “They’re my personal guard. They have to accompany me at all times.”

Lee groans with a combination of lust and embarrassment as Gaara climbs on top of him.

“That seems like an invasion of privacy,” he says, although the pressure of Gaara’s hips makes it hard to care about that very much.

“I assure you,” Gaara says into Lee’s ear, nipping at his earlobe. “They’re very discreet.”

It’s a faint reassurance, but Gaara’s hand has just started trailing down Lee’s bare chest. 

After that, Lee doesn’t worry about the ANBU (or anything else) for a long while.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning this chapter for graphic death of a minor character.

Light filters through the window slowly at this hour, wavering and pewter grey. Lee feels like he’s breathing underwater, everything cool and liquid to the touch, the air not yet bronzed by the heat of the day. No birds call outside; the Kazekage manor is far enough isolated from the main streets that the sounds of the village waking up don’t quite penetrate here. The only sound is Lee’s drumming heartbeat, keeping careful tempo, and the susurrus of Gaara’s breathing against his chest. 

Lee didn’t have much chance to get the lay of the room last night, but he looks around it now. It’s almost as sparse as Gaara’s study: a low table, a bookshelf, a chest of drawers, a high window. A series of hooks on the far wall holds several sets of Kazekage robes, hanging white and empty like disembodied spectres, their green insignia muted and mossy in the low light. 

The only sign that Gaara spends any time here at all is a narrow interior window box, sheltered from the outside’s high winds and crushing heat, layered with sand and stacked high with flat, smooth stones. Spirals of thin blue-green _euphorbia_ atop their downy reddish stems flank the prickly yellow bodies of tiny barrel cacti. Rosettes of sage green _echeveria_ and pale cobalt _aeonium_ peek their waxen leaves over the edge of the terracotta basin. A shawl of _ceropegia_ with its strands of heart-shaped leaves overflows the container and trails all the way to the stone floor. 

There’s a thin gap where the heavy curtains don’t quite touch, throwing a pale streak of light across Gaara’s sleeping face. He’s so still he hardly seems alive at all - an effigy carved out of sandstone, all copper hair and the opalescent curves of his fingernails curled into Lee’s chest. The sharp crescent of his shoulder barely rises and falls in time with his and Lee’s synchronous breathing. 

Lee’s internal clock is blaring at him that it’s well past time to get up and get moving, but it’s hard to muster up the energy when he’s blanketed with Gaara’s warm weight, all his limbs relaxed and melted into the bed. He feels newly reborn, as if he’s opened his eyes for the very first time this morning. Everything around him seems painted in fresh new colors. He feels utterly changed: a new man, yet still the same person as he was the day before. He wills himself to move a limb and finds his hand crawling instead into Gaara’s hair, right where it curls at the nape of his neck, preciously soft and still a bit stuck together with sweat. 

He feels Gaara stir, blinking his eyelashes lazily against Lee’s left pectoral. He nuzzles into Lee’s chest. Without looking, Gaara reaches up and interlaces his fingers with Lee’s bare hand, drawing the palm down to his lips. He presses a kiss where there was once cracked skin, the wound now faded into another silvery streak among Lee’s many scars. When he lets go, his hand idles on Lee’s stomach, casually tracing shapes and sigils - curse marks or blessing marks, Lee can’t quite be sure. He certainly feels blessed, showered in quicksilver light and Gaara’s tender exhalations. 

“Good morning,” Lee says in a voice still cracked with sleep. His heart swells and then bursts with utter fondness. He rubs down the line of Gaara’s back with the heel of his hand, idly counting the vertebrae. 

“Yes, it is,” Gaara says, rolling over Lee slow and sinuous, until he’s propped up between Lee’s legs, gazing down at him with eyes as curious as a cat’s. He blinks languorously, hands cupped on Lee’s shoulders. 

Lee stares up at him for a long moment. His heart flails, trembling in his chest, fluid with the soft fullness of some yet-unnamed emotion. His stomach swoops and dives, like falling in a dream - no sense of up or down, no sense of hitting bottom. 

The room slowly starts to heat up, the light growing warm and golden as the sun makes itself known over the horizon.

_Oh no,_ Lee thinks, perilously, breathlessly, _I love him._

It’s something he already knew - couldn’t help but know - but didn’t have the words for until this very moment. He opens his mouth to say it but the words crumble dry on his tongue, like litmus paper exposed to earth nature chakra. The thought is too new, too wet and fresh, like the first raw edge of a sapling poking from the dirt. At the same time (oh, his duplicitous heart), it feels as old and known as well-worn stone. 

“How did you sleep?” he asks, instead.

“Very well,” says Gaara, dipping his head down to gently kiss Lee’s lips. He rolls his shoulders; his whole body wriggles against Lee’s. “I didn’t realize I would feel so relaxed.”

“It’s the endorphins,” Lee explains. He tries his best to ignore the very friendly reaction his body has to Gaara’s movements. He has to get up and ready to leave any moment now. “The same as after training.”

Gaara hums, ducking down to kiss Lee once more. “That felt much better than training.”

Even Lee has to admit that’s true. His body is warm with a lazy satisfaction he’s never felt collapsed at the base of a training post. Gaara’s continued motions against his body and the little kisses he’s pressing to Lee’s chin don’t help sway matters in the favor of training, either. 

Gaara’s mouth trails across the side of Lee’s face, slowly working its way to the crease of his jaw, just under his ear. Lee feels the slick sharpness of Gaara’s teeth bared against his skin. He reaches up to anchor Gaara to him with hands around his waist, pressing his fingers into the dips of his lower back. The whole room is hazy, idyllic, reality narrowed down to just the two of them beneath Gaara’s thin sheet. 

A hawk flies past the window, calling loudly.

Lee startles back to reality.

The sun is higher now than it was when he awoke, tolling the end of his visit.

He looks back up at Gaara, who has drawn back, his eyes wide and a hint of disappointment playing around his features. 

“I have to go,” Lee whispers.

Gaara huffs a breath, his lower lip ever so slightly jutting out in the ghost of a pout. 

“I want to ask you to stay- ” Gaara starts. 

Lee opens his mouth to protest and Gaara shushes him with a narrow finger to his lips. Lee kisses it instead.

“I won’t,” Gaara continues, “because I know you can’t, but you…” He breathes, his eyes flicking from his hand on Lee’s mouth up to Lee’s concerned gaze and back again. “How do you do that?”

“Huh?” Lee says, a little sloppily. Gaara’s finger is still pressing his lips together.

“How do you make me want to abandon all logic and reason? I would write your Hokage right now and demand he let you stay here, if I thought it would work.”

“I don’t think- “ Lee starts to say, before Gaara presses more fingers to his mouth.

“What I’m trying to say is, I’m going to miss you. Painfully.” His hand drops to rub at his chest, right over the starburst scar below his collarbone. “It hurts - here - already, and you’re not even gone.”

Lee’s eyes grow heavy with tears. The expression on Gaara’s face right now is enough to break him, enough to make him want to throw caution to the wind, to say ‘screw the mission’ (even in such coarse terminology) and stay right here forever, for as long as Gaara will have him. He knows he can’t. But wanting is a powerful thing. 

Instead he reaches up and looses Gaara’s fingers from where they clutch at his skin, draws the fingers back down to his lips and kisses them again and again, like a prayer and a promise.

“I’ll miss you too,” he says. “But don’t start missing me before I’m gone.” He straightens up, pulling Gaara to sit with him. He tries not to let his eyes linger too long on the darkened space where the blanket drapes around Gaara’s hips. “I still have a few more minutes. Help me get ready?”

Gaara nods his reluctant assent and the two of them stand, beginning the slow work of gathering their scattered clothes from around the room. Lee hisses when his bare feet touch the cold stone floor, and Gaara beckons a bit of sand to trickle under the door and cushion them. (He had deposited the gourd outside the room last night, with no small amount of decorum, before they got fully into the swing of things.) They share quiet smiles as Lee hands over Gaara’s tunic and Gaara passes Lee his bandages. Lee lets himself indulge, only briefly, in studying Gaara’s bare form - the sharply cut lines of him, more knobby juts of bone than the smooth curvature of muscle, practically flawless, his skin unmarked and unmarred - and he feels Gaara’s eyes linger on him, too, as he stoops to gather his weights and legwarmers. Lee sits patiently on the edge of the bed while Gaara rebandages his arms for him - the touches less efficient, more intimate, far more lingering than when Lee does it himself - then checks the knots with firm tugs and grins his approval at Gaara. 

When it’s finally time to go, Gaara gathers him into a fierce hug. His nails dig so hard into Lee’s upper back that Lee swears he’ll have marks even through the thick canvas of his jounin vest. Gaara kisses him with a ferocity that leaves him gasping for breath.

“I’m going to miss you,” Lee says, but what he means is, _I love you_.

“I’ll see you at the Tanabata festival,” Gaara replies, but what Lee hopes he means is, _I love you, too._

“I’ll write you,” Lee promises, crouched on the windowsill of Gaara’s bedroom. 

Gaara’s hand pauses, viselike on Lee’s shoulder, before he finally lets go. 

“Travel safely,” he says.

Lee drops from the window and takes off through the village streets.

* * *

Lee has never done a walk of shame. Once again he’s grateful that he wears the same thing every day - just another benefit of his teacher’s perspicacity in designing identical, fashionable jumpsuits! - because this way nobody will know he’s wearing the same clothing he wore the night before. In any case, it matters little, because he hardly encounters a soul on his journey across town to gather his things from his bare apartment. It’s the work of moments to pack his belongings, few as they are, though he takes special care to deposit his small hedgehog cactus with its jolly pink flower safely at the top of his pack. 

Straps tightened around his shoulders, he drops off his keys in the lockbox and begins making his way to the ambassador’s house. 

He’s just one street away when he hears the scream. 

It’s piercing, inhuman. His blood runs cold. 

In an instant, he’s torn open the First Gate and is skidding to a stop outside the ambassador’s door. He’s met with a startled-looking Maki and Shirasagi with her hair in disarray, one firm hand straining around the hitai-ate on Yamori’s neck. Yamori claws at the ground, legs scrabbling, pulling away from her with all his might. From his throat come great screeching noises, the echoes of the sound Lee heard before. 

“Where is Utatane-sama?” Maki asks frantically, the line of her lips bloodless with panic.

“She was just waiting for you two in the courtyard,” Shirasagi says, all in one breath. “Yamori was outside with her, I thought it would be fine- ”

“And Haruta-san?” Lee presses.

“Gone on a mission, she saw him off this morning. That’s why she was outside - oh, god - “ Shirasagi runs her free hand through her messy braids.

Lee glances at the ground, looking for tracks or any sign of what direction Utatane could have gone. He sees it at the same time Maki does.

“Look at that,” she says weakly, pointing. In the middle of the street is a ring of disturbed earth, rippled like a pond after a stone has been dropped in it. At the edge of the mark is a dark pool. 

“Is that … blood?” Lee asks, wide-eyed.

Shirasagi’s grip on Yamori’s collar slackens and he lunges at the pool, lapping it up with his sharp tongue. He turns his head back to Shirasagi and his tongue flickers. 

“It’s not hers,” she breathes, shoulders sagging in relief.

“Then, where is she?” Maki says urgently. 

“We can track her,” Shirasagi calls over her shoulder, running into the house. She’s back sooner than Lee can think to ask what she’s doing, the limp corpse of a pillowcase in her hand. She thrusts it under Yamori’s snout. 

Yamori snuffles it dutifully then looks up at her. 

“Got it, boy?” Shirasagi asks eagerly.

He blinks, impassive and serpentine.

“Go find!” she calls, and Yamori tears off into the desert, Lee, Maki, and Shirasagi hot on his heels.

* * *

Yamori leads them through the village’s winding streets, up over the roofs of buildings and through narrow alleyways Lee hadn’t even known existed. There are moments when he pauses, head cocked and tongue flicking, and Lee fears that he’s lost the trail, but just as swiftly, he resumes his pursuit, dogging some unseen tracks out to where the walls rise up sharply. 

“She can’t have- ” Maki starts to call, but Yamori doesn’t stop. He scales the walls in a single vertical scramble, pointed claws pitting holes in the rock. Lee doesn’t question it; he merely follows, letting his speed and momentum carry him up the sheer cliff face. When he looks to his left and right, he sees Maki and Shirasagi right beside him, their feet glowing blue with chakra. 

At the top of the village walls, the four of them stand, their bodies buffeted by the high winds that surround the village. Yamori sniffs the air intently. Maki brings a hand up to her eyes and stares hard into the distance. 

“There!” she yells, pointing. Lee can barely make out three dark figures hurrying through the landscape, hardly distinct from the scrub brushes and saguaros that dot the desert floor. 

Lee rips open the Second, Third, Fourth Gates as easily as breathing. His body burns red with exertion, his chakra flaring. He grabs Maki’s wrist in one hand, Shirasagi’s in the other. One of them hisses in pain; his skin is hot as flame right now, but there’s no other way. Yamori shrieks, shrill and inhuman, as they leap off the wall. In seconds, they’re halfway across the desert, in the spot where the figures were last seen. 

Lee draws up short - there’s only one man here. He reels around and sees Maki and Shirasagi doing the same. Where did the other two figures go? And where is Utatane?

He doesn’t have much time to think, because the one man - a boy, really, plain-faced, dark-eyed, with a scar cut through his eyebrow - is bringing his hands up to his mouth in the Tiger handsign. 

It’s surprising he can breathe at all, Lee thinks, in the reckless way that thoughts tend to drift in the height of battle. There’s a senbon sticking straight out of the boy’s throat. When it catches the light, Lee recognizes the decoration on its end - one of Utatane’s hair pins, its beaded accoutrements bobbing as the boy swallows, blood flecking his anonymous flak jacket. 

The boy exhales a ball of fire larger than any Lee has ever seen. Lee jumps back, preparing to launch a kick, but Maki steps in front of him.

She unsheathes her scroll from her back, unleashing a massive spiral of chakra-infused cloth. It surrounds the man in an instant, sealing him and his fireball into a dome. With a flick of her hands into a sign, the dome seizes, pulsing with chakra. There’s a muffled scream, and then the smell of burnt flesh permeates the air. 

Maki releases her hand sign and the cloth wrappings fall away, exposing the man’s incinerated cadaver, curled in on itself in a pit of ashen sand. 

Lee startles - just that quickly, he was here and then gone. He turns to Maki, eyes wide and questioning. 

“What is that stuff?” he asks. “I expected the cloth to burn.” 

“Reflective backing,” she replies, pressing her palm to the scroll and spooling the cloth back into a tight roll. As she does so, Lee spies the silvery underside of it flashing in the sunlight. “It reflects and amplifies the user’s jutsu inwards on themselves.” 

Behind Lee’s shoulder, Shirasagi gruffs her approval, but they have little time for celebration. 

Lee kneels to inspect the body, carefully breathing through his mouth. There’s little left of it. If the man carried any cloth or paper it is surely burnt away. Even the metal of his hitai-ate is melted down, glimmering like spilled mercury on the blackened bone of his forehead. In the distance, Lee hears the doppler of Yamori’s scream as he tears across the desert towards them. 

Just as Yamori approaches their group, Lee hears a startled shriek - human, this time. He turns around just in time to see rouh hands emerging up from under the sand and dragging Shirasagi down into it. She vanishes up to her waist in just an instant, her chest sinking fast. Yamori leaps at her, biting the collar of her shirt and tugging frantically. 

“What’s happening?” Lee yells. 

“My ankles-” Shirasagi rasps, but the sand collapses down over her exhaling ribcage, pinning her in place.

“Hold your breath!” Maki commands. “If you breathe out, you won’t be able to breathe back in again.” 

Yamori’s claws scrabble at the earth, but the sand falls back in as quickly as he can kick it away. 

Lee jumps to the only thing he can think to do. He plunges one red-hot arm deep into the ground, cratering it with the force of his punch. 

The desert shakes and the sand crumbles away, exposing a low pit, filled with Shirasagi’s body and, below her, an all-too-familiar man holding her ankles. 

The man looks up at them, blinking mole-like in the light, his eyes red rimmed below his scarred eyebrow. 

Her hands freed, Shirasagi starts moving her hands faster than Lee’s eyes can follow. Her long braids whip around her head with the force of her chakra, transforming right before Lee’s eyes into a writhing nest of coral snakes, hissing and snapping. Lee can’t be sure if it’s a genjutsu or a true transformation - the scales that catch the light, banded poisonous black, white, and red, look real enough. In either case, they’re effective, lunging down and grabbing the man around his arms, binding him and dragging him up to the surface. 

As the man is pulled up, his fingers graze the edge of the pit where Shirasagi still stands. 

The ground trembles, quaking with a much greater force than Lee exerted on it moments ago. The whole earth heaves; the sides of the cavern start to give way. 

Shirasagi is forced to let the man go so she can jump to the surface, her feet unsteady on the desert floor. Maki drops to a crouch, braced with one hand forward, the other clutching her scroll. 

The man turns like he intends to descend back into the earth, but Lee is too quick for him. Before the sand can cover him again, Lee has his bandages unwrapped, spiralling around the man in the Primary Lotus. He leaps up - not as high as he typically would, starting from unstable ground - and pile-drives the man down into the sand, effectively immobilizing him from the neck down while keeping him conscious. 

With the man’s hands bound, the earth resumes its previous stillness. The sun’s heat pounds down around them. The man groans in pain. Everything Lee sees is hazed in red, the flickers of the Fourth Gate still igniting his chakra pathways. The pain is immense, but he cannot stop now, not until Utatane is safe. 

“Where is she?” Shirasagi grits, her knee to the space between the man’s shoulder blades.

The man groans weakly; his eyelids flutter.

“Don’t you want to know why I did it?” he asks, his voice trembling.

“No,” Maki says sharply. She unsheathes a kunai with a _shink_ and holds it to the man’s throat.

“Kill me, then,” he says, “traitor, and never know how the Leaf village wronged you.”

“Traitor?” Maki asks, leaning back. Her kunai never leaves the man’s windpipe. A trickle of blood drops to the sand.

“Ignore him,” Shirasagi demands, putting more pressure on the man’s back. She turns her attention back to him. “Tell us. Where. Is. She.” 

The man looks over to the right, where the blackened husk of his comrade lies. A tear rolls down his ruddy face. 

“I couldn’t save him, either, it seems,” the man says wetly. “Then there’s no purpose. I’ll go quietly, but first I’m going to tell you my story.”

“Non-negotiable,” Maki says firmly. She digs the kunai in. “Tell us where she is, or we’ll kill you.”

The man laughs, if you can call a laugh. It’s a fragile, broken thing. 

“You can let me talk, and I’ll tell you; or you can kill me, and I’ll never speak again.”

“Fine,” Shirasagi grates. “I’ll find her myself.” One of the snakes still lashing at her head lunges for the man’s throat, fangs exposed.

“Wait!” Lee shouts. “If she’s underground like you were, we might not have time to search! She could be running out of air right now.”

Shirasagi’s serpent stops midair. 

“It’s the Leaf who listens to reason,” the man sniffs. “The irony. Then I’ll speak freely, shall I?”

“Make it quick,” Maki grunts.

“How generous. My wife was our jounin squad leader, during the war. Our whole battalion was hesitant to join forces with the other Hidden Villages, with their long history of mistreatment and betrayal, but we listened to our Kazekage, and like dutiful soldiers, we obeyed. She led us admirably, against the forces of the Akatsuki, side-by-side with a unit from the Leaf Village. 

“Until that day, when our squad was separated from each other across the battlefield. I searched for her - I buried so many White Zetsu that the earth teemed with their corpses. And then I saw one of the Leaf ninja preparing a fire jutsu. She was right in front of him. There’s no way he didn’t see her. I called out to her - I tried to reach her and bring her under the earth with me, but it was too late. I managed to rescue the boys, but- “ He chokes back a sob. 

“That was an accident!” Lee blurts. 

“Was it?” the man says. “Or was it the culmination of every betrayal since time immemorial? Was it the Leaf simply seeing their opportunity to weaken Suna further in an eventual attempt to dominate us?”

“Friendly fire-” Lee parrots Utatane, “- it’s unfortunate, but it does happen in times of war!”

“I’m sure that’s what _she_ told you,” the man spits. “That’s what I knew they would all say. But I knew better. So I had Furiji there- ” He gestures with his head towards the dead boy, blistered on the desert floor. “- incinerate some White Zetsu and fashion them into facsimiles of our bodies. Leaving them next to her - there was no way for anyone to tell us apart. And we disappeared, biding our time until we could take revenge on the village that killed her.”

The man has been talking too long; Lee is starting to get hazy. He sways on his feet, nerves burning with pain. He struggles to follow the train of the man’s thought - is it because he’s starting to black out, or because the man is hardly making any sense? Yamori starts to paw at his side, whining, and Lee winces, biting off a scream between his teeth.

“Hush, Yamori,” Shirasagi commands.

“It didn’t take us long to see the source of the rot,” the man continues. “The Konoha council and their wide-eyed dreams of unity. Egged on by the Kazekage and his detestable fondness for the Leaf village. Even our own shinobi were not immune- “ Here, he spits on the ground near Shirasagi’s sandal. Lee might be starting to hallucinate, but he briefly imagines the man’s spit smells like bitter almonds. “But the cure was simple. Prove to the Leaf village that the Sand was no longer to be trusted. Show them our true colors; let them see us for who we truly are. And in the same gesture, avenge my wife.”

The man bites down with a force.

“Shit,” Shirasagi starts to curse. She lifts her knee off the back of the man’s shoulders. “Get his mouth, quickly-” 

The man starts turning red, his breathing growing rapid.

“Cyanide,” Lee whispers. He starts to fumble for his vest - he has amyl nitrate in his front pocket somewhere - but his hands are clumsy, his capillaries burst and fingers numb with chakra exhaustion. The Fourth Gate works in broad strokes, massive punches and high spinning kicks; it is ill-suited to fine motor manipulation. 

“It’s the least I can do for her. Sayuri, my love, I’m sorry,” the man groans. His eyes roll back in his head. His body starts to shake. “At least I killed one. I hope it’s enough.”

Maki drops the kunai. She jams her fingers into the man’s mouth.

“No!” she screams. “No! Where is she!”

Lee finally fumbles the vial from his vest. He holds it out in trembling fingers. He can barely move his mouth, he’s in such pain. He mouths the word, “Here,” his voice little more than a whisper. All the while, Yamori paws him more and more frantically, his whining ramping up into that same shrill cry. 

The man’s body heaves, his face as red as Lee’s, now. 

Lee’s fingers heat the glass vial. He shakes it, willing Shirasagi or Maki to notice him holding it out. Their eyes are both fixed on the dying man in front of them. Silent tears roll down Shirasagi’s scarred cheeks; her red face paint smears and drops to the earth like spots of blood. Maki’s face is ashen under her clan marks. 

The heat of Lee’s fingers warps the glass. It splinters, cracks open. The antidote falls to the desert floor and is absorbed by the sand. 

The man stops breathing. 

Yamori howls. 

Maki starts to sob. 

Faintly, below the earth, Lee hears a steady pounding, a muffled cry. 

With the last of his strength, he jams his heel down into the sand. His foot is so hot the sand turns to glass beneath it, shattering like the antidote’s vial. 

The earth cracks open along a fault line. The sand and brittle glass fall away. 

Deep within the earth, right below their feet, is Utatane. Her lips are blue, her face bloodied, but she’s breathing. 

She’s alive.

Shirasagi’s snakes haul her to the surface just as Lee loses consciousness.

* * *

Lee comes to a few hours later in one of Suna’s barren hospital rooms. The white light overhead stings his eyes. His body is exhausted, every muscle sore and every nerve ending singing, but he’s still alive, and that’s what matters. 

A medic ninja, his face covered in a veil, comes in and checks his IV and declares him stable but in need of another day’s rest. Lee falls asleep again almost as quickly as the medinin leaves the room. 

The remainder of the week passes in a flurry of paperwork: Maki and Shirasagi at his bedside help him fill out his mission reports, when his fingers are still too cracked raw and his palms too freshly fleshed to hold a pen. A series of medinin pass nameless and faceless in and out of his room, charting his vitals and titrating the dosage of his medications. Temari stops by, for a brief thanks and to take his verbal report, Shijima at her side to scribe a missive to the Hokage, explaining their mission’s late return. 

After that, it’s a waiting game. Utatane is largely unharmed, but her ribs are bruised from the collapsing sand, and at her advanced age she needs time to rest before she’ll be free to make the long voyage back to the village. Lee’s not in much better shape himself, badly dehydrated and on IV fluids for several days longer than anticipated before he’s finally cleared to walk around his room without supervision. 

There’s time needed, too, for the investigation into the assassination attempt to be settled. Although the principle actors have been identified and confirmed dead (for real this time), a squad of jounin headed by Maki and Shirasagi still have to scour the village for any remnants of their plot, ensuring there are no lingering traps or snares left behind. The investigation is courteously brief, at least the part Lee has to participate in, his interview with the village’s interrogation division lasting just a few minutes and full of the terse nods typical of Suna’s shinobi. 

He’s loath to ask after the fate of the leader of the operation - Shion, he discovers his name was, as he stamps a form with a still-tender hand. He hopes he was able to be buried with his wife, at least; despite his misdeeds, Lee thinks he deserves that much. But he’s afraid to question the final resting place of a traitor. The desert is still unforgiving, after all. 

Gaara stops by only once, under the pretense of thanking him for his service to the village. He blocks the door to Lee’s room with sand to give them a moment of privacy. Lee hopes nobody notices the impropriety (though Gaara’s ANBU almost certainly notice), but he doesn’t begrudge Gaara the myriad kisses he lays across Lee’s fevered brow. Even if the salt of his lips stings, Lee doesn’t regret it at all. His memory of the visit is hazy and all too short, but he does remember this: Gaara promises to see him before they leave to return to Konoha.

* * *

On the day Lee and Utatane are set to be discharged, she makes his way into his room without knocking. She hobbles, now, leaning heavily on a cane that he hasn’t seen before. She’s gaunter around the face, too, her hair pinned back with a single hairpin - the other lost to fire. 

“Close your mouth,” she snaps at him, when he looks up from neatly (unnecessarily) folding his hospital gown and gapes at her changed appearance. “You’ll catch flies.”

Lee snaps his mouth shut and stands to attention, hand at his forehead.

“At ease,” she gruffs, heavily taking a seat in his bedside chair. Lee remains standing but drops his arm to his side. 

“I came to thank you,” she says. “Maki told me everything. Your quick acting saved me from being crushed to death.”

Lee’s cheeks redden. He rubs the back of his neck.

“It was nothing,” he says. “All part of the mission. I’m proud to have served my village.”

Utatane clicks her tongue.

“Modest, too,” she creaks. “I like you more and more. I’ll definitely call upon your services the next time I return to Suna, deranged loyalists or no.”

Lee beams.

“Thank you very much, Utatane-sama!” he cries. “I hope to continue to serve you well!”

Utatane rubs one wrinkled ear.

“We still need to work on your volume,” she grouses, then huffs, a crooked smile cracking her wizened face. “I thought you might be happy. Tell that girlfriend of yours, too.”

Lee feels his blush suffuse his whole face.

“I- I- I’m not-” he stammers. Utatane raises an eyebrow. “Thank you,” he concludes lamely.

“Run along,” she bids him. “We leave in an hour.”

He checks his pack one last time - his hedgehog cactus smiles up at him, somehow still intact - and then does as she says.

* * *

Lee isn’t sure what to do with his time, so he heads towards the gates instead. He had hoped to see Gaara again before they left, but he has not seen any sign of him since their brief meeting in the hospital. It would be improprietous, he assumes, to show up at the Kazekage’s office unannounced, so he relies on word of their departure having reached him, and decides to be in the place he’d be easiest to find.

His plan pays off when a rope of sand snakes out from between two buildings near the entrance gates and drags him into an alleyway. 

Lee doesn’t even think to lash out this time, too familiar by now with the texture and impulses of Gaara’s sand. He stifles a laugh when Gaara pushes him up against a rough-hewn sandstone wall. 

“You’re fully recovered?” Gaara asks him, nosing around the edge of his jaw as if scenting out any sign of lingering illness.

“Mm-hmm!” Lee nods enthusiastically, trying his best to keep his voice low. The gate guards are just a few dozen meters away, and already on high alert from the week’s dramatics. 

“Good,” Gaara says, before kissing him fiercely, open-mouthed and crushing. Lee’s sure his mouth doesn’t taste very good right now - still lingering with the bland taste of hospital toothpaste and the antiseptic bite of the standard-issue mouthwash - but Gaara doesn’t seem to mind, if the insistence of his kiss is anything to go by. 

Lee’s knees go weak, still a bit unsteady from being laid up for so long, but he lets Gaara have his way with him, holding himself up by Gaara’s shoulders and the weight of his body pressing him to the wall. He tries to memorize the feel of Gaara’s lithe form against him, the smell of honey and taste of bitter lemon on his breath; it will be long months before they can do this again.

Eventually, Gaara pulls back, his mouth pink and damp. He breathes heavily in their shadowed corner. A vendor passes by the entrance to the alleyway, pushing a cart and ringing a bell. Lee startles, but Gaara doesn’t move at all, eyes fixed on Lee’s mouth. 

“You’ll return to Konoha safely,” he says.

“Definitely!”

Gaara gives him a look that indicates that was an order, not a request.

“And I’ll see you in the summer.”

“At the festival,” Lee confirms. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good,” Gaara replies, then he starts patting at his vest pockets. It’s then that Lee notices he’s not in his Kage robes, dressed down in a maroon linen outfit and grey flak jacket. He’s even wearing Suna’s traditional turban and veil. Laying low then, Lee concludes. Clever. 

“I have this for you,” Gaara says, removing a small book from one of the vest’s pockets. 

Lee studies it: the book is dusky brown and carefully embossed, no bigger than a hand’s breadth; the cover has no decoration to speak of but for its title. _Desert Flowers and Their Meanings,_ it reads.

Lee cracks open the front cover. Pressed between the front cover and the title page are two dried blossoms: a night-blooming cereus and a desert sunflower. 

“Are these the same- ?” Lee starts to ask.

Gaara closes the book around them, holding fast to Lee’s fingers.

“Yes,” he replies simply.

Lee grins. He had been certain they had been crushed somewhere in Gaara’s bedsheets, a small tragedy that had left him with minor heartache. How wonderful to see them again. What an abiding symbol of their passionate youth! 

“Thank you,” he says, for want of saying anything else.

“Your book was lacking in interpretations of desert flora,” Gaara explains, not a bit haughtily, a smug satisfaction quirking one corner of his mouth. “It’s not as thorough an education as I could provide you, but, well- ” He pauses. “You can read this when you get home.” 

He reaches into another hidden vest pocket and pulls out a small white linen bag, which he presses into Lee’s hand atop the book. “There’s also this.”

Lee peeks into the bag. Inside are a half dozen tiny paper sachets, each labeled in Gaara’s narrow scrawl.

“Succulent seeds,” Gaara explains. “A selection of my favorite cultivars from my greenhouse. I’ve included care instructions.” 

Lee feels his ears starting to grow pink. Even without opening the book, he’s familiar with the meaning of succulents as a class. _Enduring love_ , in all its infinite, hardy, fractal variations. 

Gaara looks up at him. A sunbeam, trailing dusky through the canvas drapery overhanging the alleyway, catches his eyes and makes them glint.

“It’s not too much?” he asks. “I don’t want to burden you. I tried to pick some that were simple to raise.”

“It’s no burden at all,” Lee breathes. “If it’s from you - I’m happy to be able to think of you while I care for them. I’ll make sure they grow healthy and strong! If I don’t, I’ll-”

Gaara silences him with a kiss before he can launch into an impassioned speech on self-challenge. 

“Just do your best,” Gaara murmurs into his mouth. “And don’t overdo it.”

“Okay,” Lee mumbles.

He lets Gaara kiss him quite thoroughly, until the angle of the sun overhead prompts him that it’s time to leave. The steady pressure of Gaara’s mouth and teeth at the juncture of his jaw and neck sends a bolt of heat right through him, close and possessive. Gaara’s shirt is rucked up in the back. It takes a moment to disentangle himself from his fingers twined in Gaara’s hair, Gaara’s knee between his legs. 

When he finally pulls back, Gaara watches him intently. If Lee’s eyes are a bit misty in the corners, he attributes that to the sun in his eyes. There’s no shame in the emotion either way. 

“I’ll miss you,” Lee says, repeating himself. 

“Until the Tanabata festival,” Gaara replies. He tucks the book and the sachet of seeds neatly into Lee’s front vest pocket, just over his heart. He pats the pocket closed with an air of propriety.

“Until then,” Lee says. 

Gaara kisses him one last time, then lets him go.

* * *

Lee arrives at the gate just a few moments past the assigned time. Maki and Utatane are already there waiting for him, Haruta and Shirasagi there to see them off. He watches from a respectful distance while Utatane goes through what appears to be an elaborate ritual of shrugging off, then fiercely embracing, her son and daughter-in-law.

Maki leans over and nudges him with her elbow.

“Girlfriend didn’t want you to leave, eh?” she asks.

“What?” Lee says dumbly.

Maki gestures with her chin in the direction of Lee neck. He reaches up and finds a tender spot at the corner of his jaw, just too high for the collar of his jumpsuit to reach. 

He feels himself reddening.

“Not to worry,” Maki chortles, “Utatane-sama definitely won’t notice, as long as you stay that red the whole trip. Maybe try and get a sunburn?”

For once in his life, Lee doesn’t regret his blushing.

* * *

After all the tearful goodbyes (or, in the case of Shirasagi, stoic claps to the elbow), the trip across the desert and into Konoha is blessedly short and uneventful. 

Lee and Maki sleep little, still on tenterhooks after their ordeal. Maki accompanies them the entire four days, shouldering Utatane’s pack (weighed down with protective scrolls from her son) as well as her own. Their group travels slowly, stopping frequently for Utatane to rest. Lee doesn’t mind the pace; he’s exhausted as well. 

Whether Maki exceeds her assigned two day escort out of some sense of obligation or fear, Lee can’t quite say. Either way, Utatane seems happy to have her along, and bids her a fond farewell when they reach the gates of Konoha. 

Lee sees Utatane to her doorstep (he’s never seen so many seals on a doorpost before), and waves goodbye to her with a cheerful smile and a mouthful of well-wishes. He dutifully ignores her when she gripes about his volume as she turns and hobbles into her house. 

After that, checking in with the Hokage and submitting his mission report is a matter of brief formality - after all, the majority of the paperwork arrived from Suna via courier bird days before. Kakashi-sensei brushes him off with some snide commentary that barely reaches Lee’s tired ears. 

Finally, sweaty and sticky and dusty and careworn, Lee is ready to return to his own small apartment. He starts shaking the sand from his shoes before he’s even reached his own street. The familiar jut of his apartment building’s roof lightens his heart and quickens his step.

When Lee ascends the steps to his apartment building and finally arrives home, it’s to a bright red library notice on his door and a hawk on his windowsill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, y'all, it's finally finished. 
> 
> This has been an awesome journey (and the longest thing I've ever written by far). Whether you just joined the story today or you've been reading since _Hanakotoba_ , thank you so, so, so much! Major shout out to everyone on both the GaaLee Discord servers for motivating me, sprinting with me, and helping me talk through things when I got stuck. 
> 
> I can't wait to show you all what I have next!


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